both alike in dignity
by thelastcountess
Summary: "He sees her for the first time in the narrow hallway at Jeremy Keeler's birthday party." Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

He sees her for the first time in the narrow hallway at Jeremy Keeler's birthday party, pressing inside the flat with a group of people loudly chatting about a talk they've just come from at the LSE, in that theatre by Lincoln's Inn that he can never manage to find without his mobile. The flat seems about ten times larger than his own, but Jeremy's circle of friends is apparently vast and wide-ranging, and there are people crammed in to every bit of the space. He's backed against one of the passageway's stark white walls, trying not to spill his Guinness – "here's one especially for Tom, the wandering Irishman!" – or knock down one of the framed pictures from the wall. It's her hair – all dark, long, messy curls, half-tamed by some sort of clip but threatening to break free entirely – that he sees first, and then, when she turns around, her mouth is pink and beautiful and he feels as if his head has suddenly been thrust underwater.

He doesn't remember how he actually ends up speaking to her. She's balancing a glass of red wine and a book that's been handed to her by a woman he vaguely recognizes from Westminster. He recalls feeling tongue-tied when she asks him about growing up in Belfast and about his job, the alcohol making him somehow both hyper-aware of his general incompetence with women and incredibly slow. Her name is Sybil. He says something totally inane about Disraeli and oracles, and her nose crinkles up when she smiles. She works for UNICEF, which he didn't know anyone actually did, but soon she's planning to do graduate work in international health policy. He mumbles a little around "Leeds" when she asks him where he went to university.

She laughs at his ridiculous jokes, and she smiles at him in a way that makes him think maybe – just maybe – she fancies him as much as he finds himself fancying her. This ultimately seems unlikely, so he just continues on talking, figuring that eventually she'll tire of him and wander off into some other, more scintillating conversation, but she doesn't. She stays, and she looks at him through dark long eyelashes, and when a lock of curly hair slips out of place and tumbles into her face, she gives him a look that makes him hot all over as he reaches out a bit bashfully and brushes it behind her ear. His mouth goes dry.

Before he knows it, the crowd inside the flat is thinning, and he starts desperately trying to plan a suave way to ask her to keep talking. She's smart, and she's gorgeous, and he hasn't so much as been interested in a woman since Laura split up with him eight months before, and he doesn't want her to go. Her friends start to leave, to make the gentle inquiries about whether she wants to stay longer or share a taxi. She looks at him shyly – he thinks it's shyly – and carefully brushes them off, and it's decided.

He fetches her coat and claps Jeremy on the back before guiding her out of the building with one hand tentatively placed on the small of her back. He shuffles his feet a bit as she hails the taxi, fidgets with the knees of his trousers as they slide in to the back of the cab, feels the softness of her skin as she slips her hand into his while he gives the driver his address.

It's thrilling and a little illicit and strange. He doesn't bring women to his flat like this hardly ever, maybe twice since he moved in. He remembers the dirty dishes in the sink as he slips the key into the lock, but a glance at her face, the nervous, slightly impatient expression, makes him forget about them. She catches her lower lip in her teeth as he ushers her in to his little flat – shabby, but mercifully fairly clean.

Her coat is draped over the back of a chair, his is hung on the coat rack behind the door. His stomach tightens as he offers her a drink. There's a moment when he starts to feel uncertain about whether she really wanted to come back to his flat for what he thinks she wanted to come back for – he always seems to doubt that a woman wants him – but then she crosses the distance between them, rises up on her tiptoes (shoes discarded in a corner somewhere) and presses her pretty mouth to his. She tastes like wine, like warmth, and he feels himself go embarrassingly hard in a matter of seconds. It's been ages since he's had a proper snog, since a woman sifted her fingers through his hair and tangled her tongue with his.

She's unbuttoning his shirt as he steers them into the bedroom, a room so small that he has to cram the double bed into a corner so that there's any space at all for walking. Her cool hands find his bare chest as his lips explore the smooth surface of her neck, soft and pristine and pale. Everything tightens, and he's painfully sure that he's going to embarrass himself. She's too much, and he's not quite drunk enough to take his own pleasure mindlessly.

He hears the clanking sound of his belt buckle as her clever fingers release him from it; he steps out of his trousers and stands before her, all wan Irish skin and ridiculous sparse chest hair, in only his boxer briefs. He knows he must look comical, square torso and rugby shoulders and too-big feet, but she smiles just a little and turns around so that he can unzip her dress. It's green – he's just now really noticing, to be totally honest – and it slips to the floor wordlessly, like a whisper, revealing swaths of gorgeous, unmarked ivory skin. He reaches out a tentative hand and strokes down her spine, from the clasp of her bra to the waistband of her little plain-white cotton knickers (his heart leaps – she wasn't planning to go home with anyone either), and she shivers. Stepping closer, he splays his hands out on her naked belly, pulling her close to him, and buries his face in her hair, smelling flowers and sweetness in the curls.

She turns in his arms, kissing him soundly as she moves to kneel on the bed. He hesitates a moment before reaching behind her and fumbling to unclasp her bra, letting the straps fall off her shoulders. Her breasts are lovely, small and round, and he lets his thumbs graze against her soft pink nipples. She gasps against his mouth, and her kiss grows more insistent and more passionate, his hands becoming bolder in return. He looks up and catches a glimpse of them in his darkened window, his body shielded by hers, long hair tumbling down her back. The reflection makes him go all hot and prickly, but he frowns a little. Someone could see – anyone could see. He pulls away from her, buoyed by the soft, dismayed noise that comes from deep in her throat, and yanks on the curtain pull, shielding them from other eyes in the night.

"Do you have anything?" she asks softly, voice raspy and low, as he turns his attention back to her. He rummages in the drawer of his bedside table – old work ID, passport, three biros with caps missing, scribbled-on and worn legal pads, the DVD copy of the second _Godfather_ film that he's been searching for – and finally comes up with a condom – expiration date not exceeded, thankfully. He drops it on the edge of the bed and clambers rather gracelessly over her – but she's grasping at him rather gracelessly as well, almost desperately really, and it makes him feel less a fool.

Her breasts brush against his chest as he lowers his body to hers, their hips coming together like puzzle pieces. He rocks against her, and she groans softly, seeking his mouth again. His skin feels too tight, and his whole being is screaming for him just to push inside her already. Her legs come up to wrap about his hips, and suddenly even that much pressure is too much – he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from coming in his shorts. Wouldn't that be a fine way to end this rather unusual evening? Tom finally pulls, and then he shoots before he can score.

Somehow he holds it together and lets her roll them over so that he's beneath her. When she's situated herself on top, wiggling in a way that makes him expel a sharp breath through his clenched teeth, he hooks his thumbs into her knickers and peels them down, helping her kick them off her legs. His breath catches when he sees her fully naked. Christ, it's been a long time, and she's like a fantasy, dark hair, blue eyes, naked above him. Entranced, he leans up and flicks the tip of his tongue against her nipple, making her cry out, drawing it more firmly between his lips. He's kissing and suckling her breasts in earnest before he realizes that she's trying to pull off his own underwear; he lifts his hips, lets her remove them, and groans so loudly when she settles her wet warmth against his bare cock that he's afraid his neighbors will start pounding against the walls.

They grind together artlessly, like teenagers, for a long moment until he can't take it anymore. He sits up more fully against the pillows and reaches for the condom, and she traces the lines of his forearms as he rips open the package. He searches her face as he rolls it on, wanting more confirmation that yes, she wants him to do this, that he isn't making her do something she'll dislike or regret. She smiles at him, but resists when he tries to move her beneath his body, reaching between them instead and sinking down on to him slowly. He groans again – relief now, but then pressure and urgency – letting his head fall back against the wall as she gives herself a moment to adjust and then begins to move on him. She's so, so, so tight. His brain rushes. Her own face has gone slack, small moans escaping her parted lips as she lifts and lowers, setting a rhythm that he knows he's not going to be able to maintain for long.

Desperate, he presses a palm against the softness of her abdomen, spreading his fingers wide and sneaking his thumb between them to stroke her. Her hands on his shoulders tighten suddenly at the sensation, fingers digging into the scar tissue that still riddles the right side of his body, and she's moving faster, harder, letting her forehead rest against his as she cries out. He feels her start to falter, feels the sudden fluttering of her muscles as she comes, and he lets himself go, arms wrapping tightly around her as he finds release.

He's shaking as he comes down, hands stroking down her back, and she's shuddering, too. Her hands come up to cup his face, and her lips are soft against his once more. He feels a sudden surge of affection for her that he can't understand – he doesn't know her, but they're connected so intimately and the gestures are so gentle, so soothing – and he hugs her even closer, pressing his face into the curve of her neck and letting her curly hair fall all around his face.

He has to move, has to get rid of the condom – definitely one of his least favorite parts of sex. For a minute, he lets himself imagine that this isn't sex with a relative stranger, that it's making love with a partner – then he wouldn't have to awkwardly disengage and roll off the condom in the loo, where the lights are too bright and his face too harsh in the mirror – then he could have come inside her, stayed tangled with her and kissed her until she fell asleep, until he fell asleep still buried in her warmth. Something inside him tugs with longing. He thinks he's probably getting too old for this.

He flushes the toilet and readies himself for the awkward negotiations about cab fare and mobile numbers, but when he steps back into the dimly-lit bedroom, she's snuggled under the duvet, fast asleep. He smiles in spite of himself, sliding between the covers and flicking off the lamp. Against his better judgment, he lets himself move close to her, one arm across her middle, his face against her hair.

* * *

><p>The blinking numbers on his alarm clock tell him that it's half past three when he opens his eyes again, not really waking but no longer pulled under by sleep. The warmth of her body still radiates from beside him. She shifts in her slumber, the duvet pulls away from her breasts, and almost as quickly he's hard again. He wonders for a moment, drifting somewhere between dreams and reality.<p>

Her neck tastes sweet, a little salty, and the skin behind her ear is so delicate and soft. The mattress squeaks a bit as he rises over her. Her eyes stay shut as he peels back the duvet and kisses a line between her breasts, down to her belly button. He thinks for a moment that he wants to taste her, but his swollen cock is insistent, so instead he settles between her legs and presses soft kisses to her face until her eyes flutter and her hips answer back to the pressure of his own.

He knows he doesn't have another condom in the drawer, but he's never met a girl in their social circle who isn't on birth control. Head hazy from sleep and booze, he thinks maybe he can chance it, but that's not right, so he murmurs, "Is it okay like this?"

She responds by reaching down and pulling the discarded covers over their heads, diffusing the dim light even more. She wraps her legs about his hips and uses the leverage to press his body against hers – he slides in easily, and the heat and the grip are almost overwhelming. But he's not as desperate before – he feels dream-like and loose. He likes sleepy sex, likes the slow rock of hips and gentle pull of lips. So he goes slowly, kisses softly, and her reaction is unexpected – he doesn't know how to read her, and the dark closeness isn't helping. She doesn't try to urge him to go faster, though, just lets her limbs twine around him, holding him close to her, stroking his shoulders and the nape of his neck with soft, gentle fingers.

He doesn't know why he's doing what he's doing, why he's making love to a woman he's only just met, except that he wants to so badly, and his heart swells strangely, painfully. He feels like he does right before he rips off a plaster – that comfortable moment of anticipation before the searing, sudden pain – and he already knows that he's so stupid, choosing to be vulnerable in a situation where vulnerability only means disappointment and shame. She's not his partner, she's not his lover, she's just a girl from a birthday party. There's something, though – there's something. He nips softly at her bottom lip and thrusts in and out slowly, feeling her body move quietly with his, and the answering sounds from her almost make him believe that she's caught up in a similar fantasy of her own. This is what he wanted.

He pulls back the duvet just far enough that he can see her face, see the pink rising on her cheeks and the sweep of her lashes as she closes her eyes. As she opens them again, she traces his lips with the tips of her small fingers and watches his face with something that looks almost like wonderment. He turns his face into her hand, kisses her palm, and closes his eyes. He feels it gathering at the base of his spine, and he knows that he's going to come – he thinks for a second that he should pull out, spill himself on the sheets or on her taut abdomen, but the thought makes him want to recoil – too much like pornography, not like whatever it is that they're doing in his bed. So he says her name softly, presses his lips to her cheek, and comes quietly inside of her, swallowing hard.

Her eyes are drooping again as he brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her cheek once more, feeling himself soften and slip from her body as they roll to their sides. His mind is in a million places, his heart beats fast, and he doesn't know what to do – he thinks probably she should tell him off for what he's just done, for what he's just pretended they are, but she doesn't. She rests her head against his chest, and slides back into sleep. He doesn't manage to slow down his mind enough to drift off until just before the sun peeks over the horizon.

* * *

><p>He wakes up alone. He can still smell her scent lingering on his skin, on the bed, but she's nowhere to be found. Dress, shoes, coat – the few items she'd brought along with her are missing, too. He finds a note on the kitchen counter, embarrassingly close to the pile of dishes in the sink. She's got an early work meeting, she had a good night, she hopes she'll see him again some time. Right, then. No number. No last name.<p>

He shakes his head, sighs, and pads off to the shower in his bare feet. He has work commitments, too, needs to meet Corin and John at lunch to go over a speech for the upcoming party conference, needs to finish a draft of remarks on proposed education cuts. Plaster successfully ripped off, then, but far more slowly than could ever be humane.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Two chapters in one day is not a normal publishing schedule for me, but for this story, I really think the first two chapters are key to getting a handle on the tone of the thing. Updates from here on out will be on something more like a weekly basis, so if you're enjoying this, consider it something of an early holiday treat. (And perhaps leave a holiday treat for me by reviewing if you're so inclined.)_

* * *

><p>It's raining when he finally makes his way out of his flat and toward the bus stop, and he's left his umbrella behind. The bus is late, the entire space is crowded and hot, and an elderly woman succeeds in upturning his work bag as she jostles to get a suddenly-vacant seat. His files are scattered, and he has to scramble to restore order. And then, when he finally gets to the office, Ian is lounging by his desk, like the harbinger of doom that he is, eating a pot of yoghurt and smiling deviously.<p>

He tosses his bag on the floor and shrugs out of his rain-spattered trench coat. "What's the matter with you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Heard you had quite the time after you left Keeler's last night," Ian drawls, slurping off his plastic spoon.

Tom rolls his eyes. "Keeler throws a good party."

Ian giggles – he actually giggles. "Not exactly what I heard. I was gone by eleven, but a well-placed source told me that you pulled."

"And?" He fishes a creased and torn file folder out of his bag, starts arranging the notes he'll need for his first meeting.

"And, presumably, you fucked the prime minister's daughter, you Irish bastard." Ian's smile spreads to epic widths.

There's an extended silence. His stomach feels strange. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"So you didn't take Grantham's daughter back to your flat last night?"

"I took a girl back to my flat. I didn't take the prime minister's _daughter_ back to my flat, for Christ's sake." His brain goes into overdrive. He's not sure he knew that the PM even had a daughter.

Ian whistles as he strolls over to his own desk and grabs his laptop, clacking noisily before toting the machine over to Tom's workspace. He plops it down on the desk unceremoniously and jabs a finger toward the screen. "That the girl?"

Sybil's pensive face stares back at him. She's posed beside the PM and his American wife, and two other young women – sisters, maybe? – outside Number 10, presumably after the last general election. She looks so young, but then that must have been four years before. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"No, that's not her," he replies, his voice a little too tight.

Ian cackles. He has always hated Ian. "That's bullshit, Branson. Frannie told me this morning that you took her home with you. You seriously didn't know who she was?"

"How the fuck was I supposed to know who she was?"

"I don't know, read a newspaper? Watch a news programme? Those girls are all over the press, especially the oldest one. She's a piece of work, apparently."

Ian clicks around some more, pulls up a Wikipedia page on the PM, scrolls down to "Lady Sybil Crawley" listed among his family members. _Lady_ Sybil. Holy shit. It was her.

He feels himself starting to sweat. Ian guffaws, then slaps him hard on the back. "Shags the PM's daughter without even knowing it. You are a champion, my friend. Best not tell Corin, though, eh? He'll think she was trying to suck all of our secrets right out of you." He snorts and laughs some more as he scoops up his computer and saunters back to his own workspace.

Tom grabs his mobile and fairly sprints to the loo, where he locks himself in a stall and begins to frantically search for information. Googling her name brings up more photos of her at various events, mainly posing at charity soirees with one of her sisters beside her. There's an article from the Telegraph detailing the PM's "rebellious" daughter's decision to work for the UN and to travel frequently to help with famine relief in Africa. There's a gossip item linking her with a rugger from the England national squad. He rubs at his eyes. Sybil in graduation regalia at Edinburgh, posing with her parents at the polls during the last general election, helping to build a school in Ghana.

He skims back through his memories of last evening – her naked body beneath his, the soft press of her lips against his for the first time, the awkward cab ride, the flirtatious conversation before leaving Keeler's flat – and tries to remember more of what she told him about herself. He knows he talked about his job, probably he was pompous and stupid, probably she was laughing at him. She told him about her work, he knows, told him about Africa and hunger and her plans for future studies. She never told him her last name, and she certainly never told him that her father was the Earl of Grantham, Prime Minister, Conservative Leader, embodiment of everything that Tom found repugnant about privilege and status and, just to make things even more awkward, the political opponent of Tom's boss.

He knows that Grantham – Robert Crawley – is the first titled PM that Britain has had for more than a century. And, of course, it was the Labour reforms of the '90s that had allowed him to stay in the Commons even after he inherited his father's title and estates and, subsequently, allowed him to eventually become the party leader and the Prime Minister. The Tories had come back to power the same year that Tom had decided to join Labour rather than one of the Northern Irish parties – technically he _was_ Northern Irish, even with one parent from Dublin and a family background that was far more complicated than he cared to think about most days, and his views on Ireland and union and religion were too complex, he'd decided, to base his political affiliation on them.

There were plenty of things he didn't like about being from the UK or about the UK in general, but that's where he was born, and that's where he felt he could do the most good. For Tom, Grantham's rise to power – the reclaiming of power by a class that inherited its wealth and position – represented all that was wrong with the UK. Being ruled by a queen, even one with a neutered, largely ceremonial position, was bad enough. Having an aristocrat in the highest office of government sent the entire country backward.

But the problem was that Lord Grantham, by all accounts, was a fair and just man. Sympathetic at times, even. He clung to ridiculous traditions in a way that harmed rather than helped, Tom thought, waving at royal weddings and all of that tosh, but he'd occasionally taken courageous stands that had won him the ire of his own party and the grudging respect of the opposition. He may have been raised in privilege, educated at Eton and Cambridge, but he'd also supported a worker's union in a significant strike and endeavoured to improve benefits to the poorest in the country.

A little voice somewhere deep inside Tom's socialist brain whispers that Grantham hadn't chosen to be born an aristocrat anymore than Tom had chosen to be born in a divided and dysfunctional family in Belfast during one of the most heated periods of violence in that city's history. But if Tom had been born in Grantham's position, he liked to believe that he would have renounced his title on the principle of it. Surely he would have done.

Had she known, though? Known who he was, that is? When they were crammed in that little hallway in Keeler's flat, and she turned to him the first time, nearly knocking the breath right out of his lungs, had she known that she was looking at one of the speechwriters for the Leader of the Opposition? Was this some sort of plan? The woman he'd brought back to his home last night hadn't seemed like that kind of person. Even the newspaper articles seem to confirm that. They made her out to be idealistic and a bit foolish, but not conniving.

But he can't get rid of the sneaking suspicion that she's sitting in one of the rooms at Number 10 right at that moment, sipping champagne with her sisters and laughing over the wunderkind Irish Labour speechwriter who had brought her back for a one-night stand and, for some reason, made love to her tenderly instead of just fucking her like he was supposed to do.

That doesn't seem right, though. She'd been kind and lovely, and the way she'd touched him hadn't felt like she was using him or making fun of him. His mind drifts back to the night before, to her soft hands on his face and her lips against his temple. She could have shagged him and left immediately, could have slipped away in the middle of the night, but he knows she slept beside him in his bed for hours, tucked against his side.

Jesus Christ. What the hell has he gotten himself into? He shakes his head and shoves his mobile in his pocket before walking out of the stall – washing his hands, half out of habit – and heading back to his desk. Corin's going to want to go over the speech draft, and he's going to have to sit down with the other writers to make changes. Long day, much work, plenty to keep him distracted. Or so he hopes.

* * *

><p>She doesn't get in touch with him. True, she doesn't have his number, but there were enough mutual acquaintances at that party that she could have weaseled it out of someone. Maybe she's embarrassed, doesn't want people to know what they did? (To be fair, he hasn't tried to get her number, either, but after all she's the one whose father is the prime minister, for Christ's sake. And, really. Everyone who saw them leave knows what they did.) Six weeks later, after the party conference, after Corin has relaxed them all into a more normal work schedule and Ian's smugness has dialed back to more normal levels, he wants to have forgotten all about it, but he's still wondering.<p>

When he's trying to sleep, images and memories from that night filter endlessly through his brain – the soft side of a breast, her teeth pulling at her bottom lip, the quiet cries that escaped from her mouth. It gets to the point that he almost can't stand it anymore, and he decides he needs to get out and find a girl and forget about Sybil once and for all.

There's a nice girl who serves coffee from a little cart near his office, and after work one afternoon, he asks her to have a drink with him. Jennifer. She's got curly red hair and pretty green eyes, and when they go to a pub a few blocks from his flat, she's charming and smart. He doesn't take her home that night – she says she needs to get back, that she's got family coming to visit the next day – but three days after that, he invites her over to dinner at his place, and she says yes.

Dishes are done this time; the table is set with a nice cloth that his mam brought when he moved in. He's got a roast chicken with lemon going in the oven, and there's a salad and a bottle of wine on the counter. He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt and paces a little bit, his eyes darting around the room for traces of dust that he's neglected.

She's supposed to be there at eight, but at half seven, while he's still on the sofa watching Fifth Gear or something, there's a rapid series of knocks on his door. He stands up with a start, looking around nervously – surely she isn't early? No one's ever early for something like this.

He swallows and heads over to the door, but when he opens it, it's not Jennifer on the other side – it's Sybil, disheveled and nervous. She looks up at him, and her eyes are puffy and red, and he feels himself start to panic. "What is it?" he asks, immediately feeling stupid. He should have said hello, should have been kinder or smoother or _something_.

But she just shakes her head, dark curls shivering. "Can I come in please?"

"Yes – I mean – yes." He backs away from the doorway and lets her shuffle inside. He watches her take in the state of the room, the table and the food on the kitchen counter, and she stiffens.

"Oh – you're busy. You're – I can come back, maybe."

"No, no," he assures her. "No, it's okay."

She bites her lip and wrings her hands a little. He feels something tighten in him as he takes in the expression on her face. "There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"Yes," she says, and her voice is small. She fidgets. "I don't even know how to say it." She takes a deep breath. She looks like she's going to be sick, and he feels like he could, too, to be honest.

Finally, he blurts, "Just tell me," even though he's pretty much worked out in his head what it must be. Either he's going to be fired, or he's going to be a father. Nothing else could put a look like that on a woman's face. His entire body goes numb.

It's the second. "I'm – I've found out that I'm pregnant, and you're the only one who could be … who it could be."

And from then on, everything changes.


	3. Chapter 3

His hands are shaking so violently when he rings Jennifer that he can barely manage to press the "send" button on his mobile. He makes a stupid excuse – he's suddenly got very ill, and he's so sorry, and he'll try to make it up to her – and he realizes when he ends the call that he'll probably never speak to her again, save perhaps a coffee purchase or two. Even then, he'll avoid that coffee cart.

Sitting alone in his bedroom, he surveys the space – cleaner than normal, just in case Jennifer had wanted to – Jesus, he's a tosser. When did this happen? He was never this guy. He feels genuinely like he might be sick, so he lets his body fold in half, his head dropping down close to his knees, and tries to take deep breaths. After a while, he realises that it's probably very bad manners on his part to leave Sybil sitting out in the living room alone, even if she knows that he's had something of a shock. He scrubs at his face with his hands and is up and out of the room before he can change his mind.

"I'm on the Pill," she says without preamble when she hears his footsteps on the living room floor. She's sitting on the sofa, her back to him. "I promise. I want you to know that. I don't know why it didn't work."

He thinks about that second time they were together that night, his utter selfishness in deciding to build some sort of fantasy moment with her rather than being intelligent and realistic about the risks and the dangers of unprotected sex. "It's as much my fault if not more," he manages to croak out as he pulls out one of the rickety dining chairs and sinks into it. "I can't believe I even asked you if it was okay without a condom, let alone actually going ahead with it. I promise I'm not really that stupid. And I'm clean. You don't have to worry about any of that."

"Good. So am I. That's good." She presses her lips together into a thin little line. "It was a strange night."

There's a long silence before she quietly ventures, "Do you know who I am, Tom?"

He hesitates. "I didn't know that night."

She nods. "I didn't think you did. I'm so sorry I didn't say, it's just that people tend to treat me so differently when they know…"

"I do know now. A friend who was also at Keeler's that night sort of told me the next day." He shakes his head. "I was … surprised."

She laughs sharply. "I'll bet you were." She sighs. "This is just … Christ, I have no idea what I'm supposed to say about any of this."

"Neither do I." His shoulders slump. "Do you know what I do? Anything about me?" He rubs the back of his neck. "I can't remember what I might have told you."

"Uh, yes," she says. "You're – you write speeches for Corin MacLeod."

"Yes."

"That's – I know this is awkward for you." She stands suddenly and starts slowly pacing around the small space, worrying the cuffs of her jumper in her fists. "I know – anyway, I've thought a lot for the past week or so, and I'm going to keep it. And I thought you deserved to know. But if you don't want – I mean, if you're not…"

"I don't know," he blurts. "I mean, it's my responsibility, and I know that, and I'm prepared for that – well, not _prepared_, exactly – but I don't know…" He sucks in a deep breath. "We just barely know each other, you know? And my job is basically to try to take away your father's job. And you're an aristocrat, for God's sake, and my father was in the IRA. And now there's going to be a baby, and I'm—"

"Your father was in the IRA?" she interrupts, blanching a little.

Images filter through his mind – his father's dark hair, his bearded chin, the bright light in the flat as everything ended. "He's dead. But yes, he was."

"Did he go to prison?"

"Once. For a few years." He picks at a bit of lint on his trousers.

"Oh." She sits down heavily on the sofa again and hugs a pillow to her chest. "This is mad. This is all mad."

He starts to feel ill again. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I've never gotten a girl pregnant before."

"I've never _been_ pregnant before," she retorts, pressing her face against the cushion.

There's a long silence – a very long silence. Eventually he gets up and goes into the kitchen to start putting the dinner things away. There's one Sainsbury's chicken gone to waste.

For a moment, he tries something – tries to imagine what it would be like if the two of them were really together and parents. He could imagine her as his partner in his bed, why not in his kitchen? He would be rinsing the dishes from their supper while she coaxed baby food into the uncooperative mouth of a child in a high chair. It would be his turn to take charge of the bath, and he'd wrap the clean child in warm towels and rock him, her, whatever, to sleep.

Maybe he could do it? This was awful on so many levels. But perhaps it could be alright in the end, if they just—

"Tom?"

He leans against the doorframe that separates the little galley kitchen from the living space and regards her.

"I'm going to go home now. I want to go to bed."

He nods, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. "Okay."

"I feel like I've just ruined your entire life."

"Ditto," he replies with a humourless laugh.

"Listen…" she stands and reaches for her jacket, shrugging it on. "No matter what, I just thought – I went home with you because I really liked you. And you were kind and nice to me. And everything was good – I mean, it was really good. I didn't call you because men who get involved with me end up in the papers, and they resent me, and I didn't want to do that to you, because you were so … I don't know, you seemed different somehow. And now I've gone and done it anyway."

He starts to reply, but she holds up a hand. "Your life doesn't have to change. No one has to know it's yours."

"People saw us at that party. It's going to get out no matter what," he points out.

"I'll deny it."

He swallows. "If you like."

She shakes her head, frustrated tears coming to her eyes. "No, that's not what I mean – I'll do it _for_ you. I'm not _ashamed_ that it's yours. But if you're just going to resent this and hate me, then we should just forget I ever said anything." She picks up her bag and rummages in it furiously. "I shouldn't have said anything. Just – I'll get rid of it, how about that? I'll tell you that, and then no matter what I actually do, you can tell people that I told you that."

She's on the edge of a considerable freak out, he can feel it, so he steps closer to her and puts his hands on her upper arms. "Take a deep breath. Don't panic."

And then she's crying, and he feels like he's in the Twilight Zone. "My father's going to _kill_ me," she rasps, hiccoughing on a sob as he wraps his arms around her and lets her cry into his chest.

When her sobs quiet, he tentatively begins, "Have you told anyone else? Do you have anyone else to talk to?"

"I haven't told anyone. I took a train to Kent to buy the test, and I took it in the loo at Tesco."

He can't stop himself from laughing a little. "Kent? Why Kent?"

"I don't know. It was the next train that left." She pulls back a little and frowns at the damp mess she's made on the front of his shirt. "Ugh. Sorry."

"Eh, it's fine. You should tell them, you know. You're an adult, it's not as if you're a teenager. They'll understand."

She snorts. "Right. Because that's what Papa wants when there's going to be an election next year. One daughter who gets in fights on _Question Time_, one who lives with a lesbian sculptor, and one who's unmarried and pregnant at 23 by a Labour speechwriter. Yes, that sounds like the perfect Tory PM Christmas card, doesn't it?"

He wants to ask about the lesbian sculptor bit but decides that now is not the time. "I won't pretend to understand."

She shakes her head. "Yes. Right. I know." She looks at him. "If you decided you wanted to be involved, I just think you should know. It would start with the photographers, camped outside your building every morning, waiting to follow you to work. Then there would be stories in the paper – not just about you, but about your family, your work colleagues, the places you go, the people you see. They would say that you were besotted with me, and therefore a fool, or were cruel to me, and therefore a monster. They would not stop until they were able to use you to leverage something they wanted – an election, a resignation, even just a punch line." She takes a deep breath. "I love my father dearly, but my life would be very different if he weren't who he is. You can make a choice about this. I never could."

She starts to go, and in his frantic rush to stop her, he puts a hand on her abdomen. She looks down at his fingers, spread there over where their child is growing. _Their child_. "I want to help. I don't know how much you want me to do. But I don't want to just forget you told me."

Her smile is a little sad. "I know. You showed me the kind of man you are that night, Tom. I'm so glad you were honest with me, even if I wasn't with you." She nods before squeezing his hand briefly.

At the door, she turns and rummages again in her bag. "Here." She scribbles on the back of a receipt. "My number. Can I have yours?"

He nods a little dumbly and recites it mechanically. She punches the digits into her phone. "Good. I will ring you this time, I promise."

"If you need to talk about this – I really think you should tell someone, but if you don't, and you want to talk…"

"Okay," she says softly, before turning and disappearing down the corridor.

Okay, he thinks. Bloody hell, he thinks. He closes the door and sits down heavily on the floor, resting his head on his knees. He spends the rest of the evening trying to imagine a small human calling him "Da" – and trying to imagine a world in which the prime minister will not have MI5 murder him quietly in his sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: Consider this an early Christmas present to those who celebrate. :) If you're enjoying the story, please review!_

* * *

><p>Five days later – five days of fitful sleep, terrifying dreams, and general anxiety and nausea, to the point that he starts to wonder if <em>he's<em> the one who's pregnant – she rings him for the first time. He's lying in his bed in his boxers, going over a speech draft with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, and when his mobile starts vibrating away on the nightstand, he sits up with a start. His palms go sweaty when he sees her name on the screen, and he scoops up the phone and presses it to his ear as fast as humanly possible.

"Are you okay?" he blurts. Once again, failure on the greeting. He taps his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"Uh," she replies. "Yes, I'm okay. Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, fine, no problem." He leans back against the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut. "So, what's – how are you?"

"Still okay," she repeats, and he can almost hear a faint smile across the wireless connection. "I just wanted to know if you'd like to have lunch with me tomorrow."

He scans through his mental schedule. "I think I'm free. I have meetings in the morning, but lunch would work."

"A late lunch, then?" She pauses. "I know your office isn't anywhere near mine."

"Where are the UNICEF offices, anyway?" he asks, rolling over and glancing out the window at the streetlights. "I thought they'd be closer to Westminster."

"They're in Clerkenwell, actually."

"Jesus. That's a commute."

"It's not really that bad. My flat's in Shoreditch."

His eyebrows raise. "Never would have guessed that."

"I know, I know. See, this is why I don't tell people who I am. They assume that I've got a la-di-da house in Belgravia or something."

"No, just a la-di-da flat in Shoreditch, I'm guessing." He rolls to his back. "Where should we meet? I can come to you if you like."

"That's chivalric of you." His heart leaps a little when he hears the note of teasing in her voice. _Oh, Tom, don't get started_, he admonishes himself. "We could meet somewhere. There's a pub I like not far from Holborn Station." She gives him the name, and he scribbles it in the margin of the draft.

"What time?"

"Will you be done by one?"

"Can be."

"Okay, then, one o'clock sounds perfect." There's hesitation in her voice. "Is this awkward? I didn't know if I was supposed to just ring you like this."

"I don't think it's awkward. I mean, everything is sort of awkward, isn't it? So this isn't any more awkward than any other part of it."

"Um, okay," she replies.

He doesn't want to end the call yet. "Er – are you feeling okay? Have you been unwell or anything?"

There's a pause. "I've been a bit sick. Nothing out of the ordinary, apparently."

"That's good." He winces. "I mean, not that you've been sick, but that it's normal."

"Right."

"Anyway." Now it was getting awkward. "One o'clock, Holborn, lunch."

"Yes."

"I'll see you there, then, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose you will." The line crackles a bit with her exhale. "Have a good night."

"You, too."

"Okay. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," he echoes, punching at the "END" button and flinging the phone across the bed. Small steps.

* * *

><p>"I just don't think it conveys the message we want to convey," Corin says wearily, flinging a marked-up copy of the latest speech on the table.<p>

Tom sighs and leans back in his chair. "Many more personal anecdotes, and this turns into utter crap," he argues. "The worst kind of stupid political schmaltz."

John – cranky veteran speechwriter to Tom's brash young speechwriter, trumpeted the _Guardian_ in a profile of MacLeod's staff last year – sighs back from across the room. "The _Mail_ is already saying that Corin sounds too mechanical, too much like a wonk."

"And now we're giving a shit what the _Mail_ says?" Tom retorts. "I must have missed that memo."

"Okay, okay." Corin holds up a hand. "One human interest story to illustrate the argument about rising unemployment. Military family from the Midlands. Spread things out a bit."

Tom shook his head. "John, that one's on you."

"I'm five steps ahead of you, as per usual," John snipes, packing up his notes and grumbling as he leaves the conference room.

"He's out of touch, Corin," Tom says. "You're going to sound like an American if you keep going on with these stories from the people."

"For God's sake, Branson, aren't we supposed to be the party of the people, after all?" Corin replies with a smirk.

"There's a difference between representing the interests of the people and pandering with stupid pathos arguments," he says. "I've had enough experience with the human interest angle in my own life to know."

Corin hums a little under his breath. "I'd wager you have."

"There's something disgusting about using people's problems for political gain, no matter how good the intentions are." He taps his pencil on the draft in front of him. "It just cheapens the whole thing."

"Regardless, there's strategy and then there's strategy." Corin rises and straightens his tie. "I have to go meet with Freddy Colfax about the Russian summit. Do me a favour and write up another draft yourself. God knows what John's going to come up with."

He grunts his assent. "I have a lunch meeting. I'll have something for you later this afternoon."

"Fine, fine," Corin replies. "Toe the line. Touching, but not _touching_. I trust your judgment." He strolls out of the room, leaving Tom alone to wonder precisely how trustworthy Corin was going to find him over the next few weeks.

* * *

><p>She's waiting at a table in the back when he arrives, shaking rain off his coat, at the pub the next afternoon. For a moment, he has the chance to look at her before she registers his presence. She's beautiful – a little drawn, a little tired, but she makes his heart stop. Oh, he's going to be steamrolled by her in the end, he can feel it already. He's already so vulnerable and so unguarded. He never had a chance.<p>

When she looks up and sees him, her eyes widen with recognition, and she beckons him over. He fumbles his way toward her, holding his bag and his umbrella at odd angles to keep them from decapitating their fellow diners. Her smile is genuine, but unlike him, she is guarded. She's always guarded, he thinks.

"You look busy," she remarks, gesturing toward the chair across from her.

He dumps his things on the floor and shrugs off his jacket. "Had a packed morning. Sorry I'm late. I'm going to blame TfL for that. Some sort of delay on the Central Line fouling everything up."

"You're not too late," she replies, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. "They've only been by once so far."

He nods. "What's good here?"

"Um." She opens the menu and flips through. "I like the fish and chips sometimes." She swallows hard. "There's a salad with feta cheese that's not bad."

"Are you okay?" He tilts his head. "You're looking a bit green, to be honest."

"Thanks," she replies tartly.

"No, I just mean—"

"Sorry, no, it's okay. I've been queasy all day, I'm just a little tetchy." She closes her menu and sits back in her chair with a small sigh.

He frowns. "We could go somewhere else if you want, I don't want you to feel ill…"

"But you're hungry, aren't you?"

"The situation's not that dire." As if on cue, his stomach rumbles to life, and she smiles wanly.

"Go on, order some food. I'll just have bread and water and maybe things will calm down a bit."

"Okay," he agrees warily. When the waiter comes by, he asks for the haddock for himself and bread for her, and she just nods along with him.

"Anyway," she says as the waiter collects their menus and disappears, "I wanted to tell you that I told my parents."

He knows that his eyes must be like saucers. "You did?"

"Yes." She sips a little at her water. "You were right. I need to face this if I'm going to go through with it. I was only going to be able to hide things for so long anyway."

He realises he has no idea how many weeks or months along she is. "How soon – when do they say you're due?"

"I went to the doctor with my mother after I told them. He says May. I don't really understand how they calculate it – cycles and things like that."

"May." He'll be a father by summer. He swallows hard. "So right now you're…?"

"Nine weeks, apparently. Even though we only – it was only eight weeks ago. It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, that is strange."

She sighs. "It really is yours though, Tom. I hadn't been with anyone in months and months before you and I…"

"I believe you. I hadn't either. Not that it matters, I guess. But I hadn't."

"Okay." She's a little flushed, and she sips from her glass again. "Listen, there's something – Papa and Mama were so upset when I told them – I couldn't admit how it happened. I was too scared. So I told them I had a boyfriend." She shakes her head. "It was stupid, and I shouldn't have done it."

"No, I can imagine," he replies. "I don't know – do you want me to…"

"They want you to come to dinner next week," she says quickly, the words tripping over each other in her haste. "Well, they want my mysterious, heretofore unmentioned boyfriend to come to dinner, anyway." She winces. "I'm so sorry. You don't have to if you're not up for it. You haven't even said whether you really want to be involved yet or not."

He shrugs. "I don't think I'd be here if I didn't."

"Oh," she says. "Yes, I guess that's true."

"Did you tell them my name?"

"I told them your name was Tom. I didn't tell them the rest."

"Okay." He lets out a breath that he wasn't even aware he was holding. "My brain is just all over the place, Sybil."

"I know. Mine is, too." She leans an elbow on the table. "I realised this morning that I'll have to cancel the trip to Africa I had planned for the winter. Can't really help do manual labour while I'm six months gone."

"No, probably not."

"I just thought I had everything finally mapped out. Plans to go back to get my master's degree, to work for certain charities. Finally a way to carve out a life outside of the political circus, you know?"

"And then there's me, a part of the political circus, imposing myself on the plan."

"I didn't mean it that way," she replies with a strange look. "I just meant that I wasn't prepared for surprises at this point, and this is just about the biggest surprise I could ever imagine."

"I know." Dazed, he blinks a bit. "Were your parents – I know you said they were upset, but were they hard on you?"

"They were shocked. Mama started crying, but Papa was just totally silent. They told me how disappointed they were in me. _Disappointed_. I mean, is there anything worse that a parent can say to you?"

She looks like tears are threatening, so he reaches out across the table and grasps for her hand. "It's okay. You don't have to give me a full recap. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's – they didn't threaten to disown me or toss me out of the family. They were worried for me. And they know that the papers are going to be merciless when things become … _evident_," she explains. "They asked if I wanted to go stay with my aunt in New York for the year to get away from the press."

He feels panic start to rise – how could she tell him all about the baby and then disappear to another country without him? "Do you think you would go?"

"No, no, I'm not going to do that. Not after I've brought you into this. I'm going to face up to it here." She squeezes his hand. "But it's not like they were threatening to exile the shameful daughter, either, so don't think that of them."

How could he not? Sybil's pregnancy might not have disastrous effects on her father's political career, but it was certainly going to be a distraction. For the first time, he starts to really worry about how this is all going to play out. He's probably going to lose his job, and her family may marginalize him to the point that he barely gets to see his child. It's too much. He can't find the words to respond, so he just plays a bit with her fingers until the waiter comes over with his lunch.

He tries to eat quickly, mindful of the way the food must be affecting her; she chews slowly on a piece of crusty bread and scrolls through messages on her mobile. "I just hope it helps," he begins, swallowing, "that I'm a part of this. Or are they going to make things even more difficult when they find out about my job?"

"I think the idea that I'm some common slut who fell pregnant after a one-night stand would be worse than that," she replies quietly.

He frowns. "You're not a slut," he murmurs, "don't say that. So we decided to go home together that night, so what? You weren't with anyone, and neither was I. We both knew what we were getting into. We didn't do anything wrong." He pauses. "Well, I did, the second time. But it wasn't wrong that we slept together."

She stands abruptly, and he follows, setting his napkin on the table. "I think I need to get back."

"Hang on," he says, fumbling with his wallet and putting down a couple of notes. "Hang on, let me take you back." She starts to shake her head, but he puts a hand on her elbow. "Please, let me."

Eventually she relents, and she even takes his hand as they make their way outside. He hails a taxi over her protests that they can just take the bus, and as they slide inside, he thinks back to that August night when they clutched each other nervously in the back of a cab on the way to his flat.

_Don't fall in love with her_, the little voice inside his head hisses. _That's only going to make everything even more difficult_.

He leans his head back and coughs a little bit. "So, next week."

"Monday night. I'm so sorry."

"No. I mean, I'm going to have to meet them eventually, right? No matter what our situation is."

She nods slowly. "I suppose so."

"I'll go," he offers, "on one condition." Her forehead wrinkles as she turns to regard him. "You come to my flat for dinner on Friday and give me a crash course in talking to the aristocracy."

She snorts, "Like we're a different species or something."

"Hey, now, to a working-class boy from Belfast, you pretty much are," he joshes. She smiles a little. "So that's a yes?"

"Yes, I guess that would be a good idea. We can get our stories straight, and I'll help prepare you for the minefields that lay ahead."

"That's reassuring." He nudges her shoulder with his. "Hey. This is going to be fine."

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it once as they pull up outside her work. "Text me to tell me when to show up on Friday," she says. "I'll bring takeaway." She starts to get out of the car, but then she stops herself, leaning back in and pressing her lips firmly but fleetingly to his cheek. She opens her mouth to say something – but she just smiles faintly and hurries out of the cab.

_Don't fall in love with her, Tom_.

"Palace of Westminster," he orders the driver gruffly, sinking back into the seat and letting his eyes slip shut.


	5. Chapter 5

"Do you have plates?" she asks, rummaging through the contents of one of his cabinets. "I hate eating from the containers."

There's a bag of Chinese takeaway sitting on his counter and a prime minister's daughter in his kitchen. He sits back in his chair, taking his eyes away from his laptop momentarily, and regards her. "Second from the left. No – no, the one closer to the refrigerator. Yes, just there."

"No, not these disposable things, I mean real plates," she says. "I'll load the dishwasher later, I don't mind."

"Didn't know you had a thing about plates."

She levels a pointed look at him. "I work for the UN, do you have any idea how much literature we have in the offices on sustainability?"

"Hm." He taps away. Of course, ten minutes before she was due to arrive, he'd been sent an emergency task from work that had to be dealt with ASAP. "Makes sense."

"As well it should."

In a way, he's grateful for the distraction, because watching her putter about so naturally in his kitchen makes him feel very strange. He scratches at his stubbly cheek. "Sorry again about this."

"No, no, it's fine," she assures him as she carries a stack of plates and flatware over to the coffee table. "What do you want to drink?"

"I can get that." He scrunches up his nose at one of the edits that John has made to the remarks on Russia. Ugh, John. "Go ahead, sit down, eat." She had arrived feeling better and, she'd said, hungrier than she'd been in days. "Wouldn't want to miss that hunger window."

"Mm, I can wait a few minutes, I'm sure." She's got her head in the fridge already. "Beer? Something fizzy? I wonder if I'm allowed to have ginger beer."

He taps a few more times, hits send on perhaps the worst contributions he's made to a speech since MacLeod hired him, and closes the lid of his computer forcefully. "Okay, that's sorted. Seriously, sit down, let me do this. I didn't invite you over here to serve me food."

"No, just to teach you how to talk to posh people," she replies with a roll of her eyes. She passes him as she walks into the living room carrying a glass of water and a carton of Kung Pao chicken. "I didn't know what you liked, so I just got some random things."

He snags two cartons out of the bag and a bottle of lager and joins her, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I can eat pretty much anything."

"Impressive."

"Or evidence of a total lack of sophistication," he says with a smirk. "So, speaking of which, tell me about Monday."

"Well," she says, talking around a mouthful of rice, "it sounds like everyone's going to be there."

"So that's your mother, your father, and your sisters?"

"And Granny. It's her house, we can hardly keep her out."

"Wait. How is Number 10 your gran's house?"

"No, no, not Number 10. Monday dinners are at Grantham House."

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a long pull from the bottle. "Let me guess. Grantham House has been the earl's residence in London for centuries?"

She shifts uncomfortably. "Yes, and what of it?"

He laughs a little and shakes his head. "Bloody hell. What have I gotten myself into?"

"Well, you'll find out, won't you?" She takes a small bite and chews thoughtfully. "So Mary is the oldest. She works for the Party doing something, I don't really ask many questions. She's the one who's on TV sometimes."

"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but they call her 'the bulldog' in our office," he says.

"What do they call me?"

He shakes his head. "You're not on telly enough to get a nickname. Come on, don't you think I would have known who you were that night if you were water cooler conversation?"

"I don't know if I should be disappointed or relieved," she says. He wants to say _relieved_ – for now, anyway, because they're both most certainly going to get new names in the press when the news breaks. "Anyway. Mary's fiancé probably won't be there, but he might. That's Matthew."

"Matthew. What does Matthew do?"

"He's a solicitor. Company law, mostly, I think." She sips from her glass. "The thing with Matthew is that he's actually our cousin. Wait – don't make a joke about inbreeding and the aristocracy, let me explain it."

He snorts. "Okay, go ahead."

"Since I've only got sisters, and girls can't inherit titles, the title goes to the nearest male relative. There used to be an entail that meant that Mary couldn't inherit the house or the estate or anything, but that was all done away with years ago. So Matthew's actually the nearest relative – he's going to be the next earl. He gets the title, but Papa can decide to give the houses and money and things to whomever he chooses."

Only about half of those words make sense to him – entails, titles, estates. Christ. "So Mary decided she'd marry her cousin so she could be the countess?"

"No. And besides, he's not our first cousin, he's third or fourth or something," Sybil says with a glare. "We only know him because of the title. They've been engaged on and off for years. I think they really do love each other, but the whole thing is so Jane Austen that they've been reluctant to actually get it over with and get married." She pauses. "And then there's Edith."

"She's the middle one."

"Mmm, yes, that's right. She's a writer. Lives in Camden with some artist friends. She actually just had a poem published last week." Sybil sits back on the sofa, lets the pillows pile around her. "Edith and Mary don't get along, never have. And now Mary thinks that Edith is trying to jeopardize Papa's chances in next year's election by becoming a bohemian. As if that's something she just picked up last year." She sighs. "Granny says that there's a grand tradition of bohemianism in the family, and Mary's just being Mary."

"I'm guessing Mary's going to think you're doing the same by associating with me."

"Is that what we're calling it now, 'associating'?" she replies lightly. "I don't know. Mary's always given me a longer leash, for whatever reason. But she's going to hate you, there's no doubt about that. But that's just her, it's not your fault."

He sits back and regards her for a while, the pink of her cheeks and the untamed dark curls that frame her face. "You're sure about this."

She frowns. "Sure about what?"

"Sure about bringing me to meet your family. Sure about telling them that the baby is mine." He swallows hard – those last words are still difficult to say.

"Are you having second thoughts?" she murmurs, her eyes wary.

"No, I'm not having any second thoughts at all. But this is going to be really difficult for you, isn't it? They're going to give you a hard time about me."

"They'll get over it."

"Will they? Because I don't plan on quitting my job, and I don't plan on becoming a Tory. And there's going to be an election at some point next year, and I'm going to be working for the other side." _If they don't sack me over this,_ he adds silently.

"I know all of that. Besides, do you really think _I'm_ a Tory?" She's agitated, and he's instantly sorry that he said anything. "I have thought this through. I know what the circumstances are." Tears are springing to her eyes. "And anyway, you _are_ the baby's father. Would it be better to lie about it, pretend it's someone else, someone more to their liking?"

"I'm sorry," he says. "Of course not. I'm just worried for you."

"I'm worried for both of us!" she exclaims.

He rises and moves to sit beside her on the couch. "I'm sorry," he repeats, feeling entirely dumb.

She lets her head drop to his shoulder. "They love me, Tom. They want me to be happy."

"That's good," he says, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "I'm glad. I just don't want to make things more difficult for you."

"You won't," she replies. "It's going to be bad for a while no matter what, can't you see? And at least, with you, I have an ally, don't I?"

"You do," he confirms. "Remember that. I'm on your side, Sybil."

"Good." She sniffs a bit, rubs at her nose, but she doesn't move away. "That will make it easier for them to believe that we're more than just, um, acquaintances."

"Right. Acquaintances." But he doesn't move away, either.

"So how long have we been involved in this fictional relationship, do you think?" she asks, reaching for a pillow and hugging it to her midsection.

"Well, clearly at least since August," he says with a tired smile. "But that would really defeat the purpose of the charade, wouldn't it?"

"When did you – did you split up from a girlfriend or something, do we need to factor that in?"

"Uh, yes, that would be an issue." He thinks fleetingly about Laura first, and then about Jennifer, hoping to God that she's not the kind who would sell a story to the papers. "My last girlfriend – it must have been almost a year ago now."

"So if we say it's been six months…"

"That's when you broke it off with the last bloke?" he asks, a little teasingly, a lot curiously.

"No, I haven't had a serious boyfriend in a long time," she replies. "And I haven't really even dated much this year."

He can't stop himself from asking. "What was the last one's name?"

"The last who?"

He swallows. "The last man you slept with. Before me."

She pulls away slightly. "Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know." He watches her quietly.

She hesitates. "I hadn't been with anyone in a really long time before you. Not since university, actually."

He can't school the shock that he knows is written all over his face. "No one?"

She shakes her head. "No one."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying not to splutter nonsense. He should have been more careful with her, he should have asked her more questions, he should have should have _should have_. "But … but why me?"

She shakes her head again, and for one terrifying moment he thinks she's going to cry, but she leans toward him instead, eyes bright, and presses her mouth to his. His heart starts beating so hard he thinks it might leap right out of his chest. Her lips are soft on his, and then the kiss deepens, and he's pulling her into his lap and sinking one hand into her hair. _Not a good idea_, his conscience warns, but he can't stop himself.

She's breathing hard when she pulls away, her hands still on her chest. "That's why," she replies with a small smile. "I haven't wanted to do that with anyone else I've met for long time."

His brain is swimming, and he drops his head to her shoulder. "Jesus. I fancy you like crazy, but I don't know if we should…"

She brushes the hair off his forehead. "I know." She disentangles herself from his arms and settles back on the other end of the sofa. "It would just be one more complication."

"I don't know what it would be," he murmurs, rubbing at the back of his neck.

An awkward pause, and then she suggests, "Well. At least that will help them believe that we're really a couple."

He clears his throat. "I just … you should know. I won't get involved with anyone else."

"I won't either," she replies quickly. "Can't imagine I'd be a terribly interesting prospect for most men, anyway, pregnant with someone else's baby."

"With my baby," he murmurs. Her eyes are soft.

"Yes," she says. "With your baby."

The air in the room feels so charged that he can hardly stand it, so he stands and gathers up the remnants of their dinner and takes them into the kitchen. He rinses the plates and leaves them stacked in the sink, giving himself a moment to regroup, to breathe.

"Okay, then," he says softly, settling again opposite her on the sofa. She's quiet. "You should know about me, and I should know about you. My name is Tom Branson –Thomas, really, but nobody's ever called me anything but Tom. My mother's called Pat, and she's a nurse at the Royal in Belfast. My father was called Danny. Mam's from Dublin originally – that's why my accent is sort of…" He gestures vaguely. "My da was from Derry. He died when I was five." He hesitates, thinks about saying more, but decides against it. She'll find out the rest eventually. "I don't really remember him much. He was in and out of prison after I was born." Her gaze is steady and attentive, so he soldiers on. "I was born in Belfast in 1982. I'll be thirty in January."

"What day?" she interrupts.

"Er – the twelfth."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"No," he says. "My mam never remarried after Da died."

She nods slowly. "And you came to England for university?"

"I read politics at Leeds. Got a first." He's still absurdly proud about that, even if it wasn't an Oxbridge degree. "And then I joined Labour, and I've been working for Corin for years, long before he got to where he is now."

"And you split up with a girlfriend earlier this year. Long term?"

"Laura? Couple of years, yeah. She ended it around my birthday last year, actually."

"That's not very nice."

He laughs sharply. "No, no, it really wasn't." He squints at her. "I like to watch telly and go to the cinema. I hate Indian food. I read a lot, history mostly. I like cars."

"How often do you go back home?"

He scratches his cheek. "Ehm, not very often. For Christmas sometimes. Mam came to see me last summer for a week."

"Isn't she lonely there without you?" Her family must be different, must see each other constantly. "You her only child and all, by herself in a big city."

"She's got a sister who moved up after the Agreement in '98. And she's got loads of friends." He frowns. "We talk, we write sometimes, e-mails and such. I just don't like being there, and she knows that."

It's her turn to frown at him, but she doesn't press him. Instead, she says, "Simon."

"Hm?"

"My last boyfriend was called Simon. He's the last person I was with. We met at university, and I just about died when he broke up with me last year." She smiles sadly. "Foolish girl."

His heart skips and flips about. "Nah, I highly doubt that." He knows some of the answers, but he asks the questions anyway. "Where were you at university?"

"Edinburgh." Her smile is brighter. "I miss Scotland, the disgusting weather and the gloom. It was good for thinking."

"That's what Ireland's like, sort of."

"I'd probably like it then." She examines her fingernails, picking at a bit of nail varnish. "I read English literature, but I got involved with some of the political groups there and got really interested in public health issues."

"I think you should still go back to school," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "With a baby strapped to my back?"

"There are crèches and things, aren't there? Anyway. That's why you went to work for UNICEF?"

"Yes, that's why." She leans back further into the sofa cushions. "I grew up in London and in Yorkshire – that's where the big house is. We were in one of the smaller houses on the estate until my grandfather died. That was, oh, fifteen years ago, I suppose. And then I went up to Marlborough, and on to university." It's all he can do not to shake his head. "I'm twenty-three. My birthday's June seventh."

"Favorite book?"

She bites her lip and looks a bit sheepish. "Probably _Jane Eyre_. That probably sounds really cliché."

"Where do you go on holiday?"

"God, you're going to make me sound like an absolute toff. Usually we go to Italy. Sometimes Greece. Have you ever been to Santorini?"

"Can't say that I have."

"It's good. And I like America. My mother's American. We'd go visit her family in New England, go to Martha's Vineyard. I like it there."

He watches her for a moment. "So six months ago, I was at a birthday party for a friend, and I turned round and there was a beautiful posh girl with dark hair, and for some mad reason she answered when I said hello to her. And we talked all night, and we've been dating ever since."

She blushes a bit. "That sounds about right."

"And now we're going to have a baby."

"Yes," she whispers, looking down at her fingers.

He finds himself smiling a little in spite of himself. "Okay. Do you think they'll believe us?"

"I don't know. But they won't say if they don't. Well, Mary might. But all of the rest of them will pretend."

"I suppose it could be worse."

"I won't let them be awful to you," she promises. "I'll take care of you."

He smiles a bit. "I'm counting on that."


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Thanks a million to all of you who have taken the time to review the story - I appreciate your thoughts more than you know, and I'm flattered that some of you are invested enough that you have even offered suggestions for how you'd like to see the story progress. Do know that I'm working from an outline, and that the story is planned to its conclusion already, so don't worry that I'm coming up with this as I go along! And please do let me know if you're reading and enjoying this chapter._

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><p>On Monday night, as promised, Sybil shows up at his flat promptly at seven. She looks beautiful – her hair is pulled back from her face, and the purple dress she's wearing makes her eyes sparkle. He looks doubtfully at his jumper and trousers. "Come on, you look perfectly fine," she assures him, taking his hand and leading him downstairs to the car.<p>

It's a Bentley – a real, honest to God Bentley. He has a little freak out over the car, and Sybil laughs good-naturedly. "It's Granny's," she says. "We don't have anything like this. She thinks that ladies who take taxis will inevitably be kidnapped and murdered, so she sends a car when we go to her house."

"Feel free to have her send this for us any time you want," he marvels, stroking the curve of the door handle reverently. "What a beautiful machine."

Sybil rolls her eyes. "Let's go, Romeo."

She's acting flippant and almost carefree, but he can feel a tenseness in her muscles as she sits beside him in the car. He reaches out and rests a hand on her knee without giving the gesture much forethought, and then, after his palm is already curled around her knee, skin against the sleek stockings she's got on, he starts panicking about how he can discreetly pull away and pretend he was just picking at a piece of lint or something. But just as he's almost figured it out, she lets her own hand rest atop his, twining their fingers together, and leans against his side.

"You look wonderful," he murmurs against her temple. "How are you feeling?"

"I wouldn't say I'm _feeling_ wonderful," she replies. "But well enough. I'll be fine."

"Good," he says, enjoying the feeling of her warm body pressed against his.

The trip from his flat in Shepherds Bush to Mayfair is quick enough – not much congestion on a Monday evening after everyone has already made it home from work. When they pull up outside the house, he almost swallows his tongue. Sybil's grandmother lives across the street from the American embassy. Jesus. She catches his eye and nods. "It's a security nightmare sometimes. You should hear Granny get going on the Americans. Mama just _loves_ that."

"I can believe it."

Sybil thanks the driver, and he follows her as she hurries up a few steps to the front door. She's barely rung the bell before a smartly-dressed man greets her with a hearty "good evening, milady!"

She greets the butler – Sybil calls him Carson – who squints back warily at Tom before waving them toward the drawing room at the back of the house.

Sybil squeezes his hand tighter and gives him a small smile as they follow Carson, who actually pauses in the doorway and _announces_ them, like they're at an old-fashioned debutante ball. She squeezes his hand once more, and he wonders if he's going to have any feeling in his fingers by the end of the night.

The family is arranged in the room like a tableau, with women in beautiful dresses posed on expensive-looking chairs and the prime minister in the midst of them all, standing ramrod-straight in his impeccably-tailored suit. "Sybil, darling," coos her mother – she's easily recognizable from the photos he's seen, plus there's that tell-tale American accent.

Sybil lets go of Tom's hand just long enough to step into her mother's embrace, but just as soon she's back at his side. "Everyone, this is Tom. Tom, this is my mother and my father." The PM steps forward to shake his hand – a rather unsettling sensation. Lord Grantham's gesture is warm, but his eyes are like ice, and Tom knows immediately that Sybil's father has not yet accepted his youngest daughter's new situation. Sybil's mother nods with a careful smile. "My sisters – this is Edith, and this is Mary." A small smile from bohemian Edith, not even a glance from bulldog Mary. "And this is my grandmother."

The dowager stands a bit shakily, leaning heavily on her stick, and steps forward. "So this is our new Irishman, Sybil?"

Of course she speaks about him as if he's not in the room. He expected no less. "Not so very new, but yes, Tom's originally from Belfast."

"Not so very completely Irish, then," Mary mutters from across the room.

He tries to keep his attention on the grandmother. "It's nice to meet you, Lady Grantham."

She sniffs a bit in response, nodding rapidly. "Well, then, we're all here, I suppose? No Matthew?"

"He couldn't come, he sends his regrets," Mary supplies, still looking everywhere but in his direction. This worries him – he doesn't much care if she hates him, but if it upsets Sybil, he finds that he cares a great deal. This also worries him a bit.

He accepts a gin and tonic from Edith, who also hands a glass of water to Sybil. "So, Tom," she begins brightly, "I don't think I've heard the story of how you and my sister met."

Good – he's prepared for this one. "Um, well, we actually met at a birthday party a few months ago."

"Six months ago, wasn't it?" Sybil contributes from her place beside him.

"I think that's about right. Anyway, I was there, and she walked in, and I was sort of bowled over." She smirks a little at this. "And from then things just sort of moved on, didn't they?"

"They did," she confirms. "It was my fault. One of my friends from work is seeing a Labour MP's staffer, and I went with her. I was the crasher."

"How can you be a crasher when you vote Labour?" Edith asks with a raised eyebrow. It earns her a bit of a punch on the arm from her sister.

"Not around Granny," Sybil hisses, and he smiles broadly. "And besides, at least I vote."

Edith shrugs. "I find the whole exercise a bit lacking, frankly." She smiles at Tom, her upper lip somehow curling in on itself. "What part of Ireland are you from?"

He swallows. "Northern Ireland, actually. Belfast."

"Oh, goodness," she replies. "That must be a bit … _challenging_ at times."

He tries not to roll his eyes. "Tom's been in England since university," Sybil supplies. She slips her arm through his and leans against him a bit.

"Oh, really? Where were you?"

"Leeds," he says with a cough.

"That's fantastic," Edith says warmly, using that as her exit from the conversation.

"So far, so good," he murmurs in Sybil's ear. She just gives him a look and sips at her water.

"Well, then, shall we go in?" the dowager trumpets. Murmurs of assent follow, and they file into the dining room – not so large as he'd assumed, but opulently decorated. To his great relief, he's seated between Sybil and Edith, with Mary out of reach entirely.

It's a three-course meal – beef wellington follows the soup, and finally there's a sticky toffee pudding that is proclaimed to be "Sybil's favourite." He knows she's feeling ill when she spends more time poking and prodding the dessert than she does eating it. Throughout the first two courses, her mother deftly manages to keep the conversation light and non-controversial – no politics, no class issues, no talk of the coming arrival. It's impressive – he manages to get away with only contributing small comments here and there, usually at Sybil's prompting.

But when she's halfway through her pudding, Mary goes in for the kill. "So what can you share with us about Corin MacLeod's plans for the Russians, Tom?" Her voice is deceptively light, but her words are already dripping with venom.

"Ah…" he begins rather dumbly, clutching his fork like a lifeline. "I'm really not that involved in those sorts of things."

"Oh, come now, I don't believe that for a second. Gregory Morris told me that your fingerprints were all over the remarks from this weekend."

"Mary." Lord Grantham's voice is heavy with warning.

Sybil interjects. "Tom's good at what he does, but you know he can't speak about his work. You wouldn't ask them to tell you about private things, Tom, would you?"

"Of course not," he says, looking at her gratefully. "I'm here with Sybil, not as some sort of agent for MacLeod."

"But wouldn't it just be perfectly convenient if he did manage to pick up on something?" Mary replies, and it's becoming clear that she's got an agenda for the evening that she'll be seeing through, regardless of her parents' clear signals.

"I'm not working this evening," he says, feeling rather feeble as he reaches for his wine glass, only to find it empty.

"Oh, no, of course not." Mary targets him with an unnerving look – a smile round her mouth, but daggers in her eyes. "Though of course you're also well versed in how to undermine those in power, aren't you?"

"Mary, stop it," Sybil says, but her sister plows ahead.

"I assume those sorts of things are family traits." She looks over at her youngest sister. "You know that his father was IRA?"

"Yes, I know all about that," Sybil replies with a glare. "And I also know that children often don't share their parents' political opinions. You should all be quite aware of that by now."

"Sybil, has Susan told you any more about whether you can continue to work after you're at the LSE?" her mother interrupts, clearly desperate for a change in the subject, but to no avail.

"Not just IRA, either, but the Provisionals. You must have been just a baby when he went to prison."

His throat feels tight. "I was."

Sybil reaches for his hand underneath the table. "None of that matters. It's all in the past."

"Except that the Provos have been using his name in their literature for years, right up to now," Mary says.

"That's not my fault," he protests. "It's none of my business."

"I think if I were working in the highest echelon of the British government, I'd want to make sure that a radical terrorist group stopped mentioning me," she scoffs.

He knows that Sybil is speaking, but the sound of rushing in his ears drowns her out. "I've got nothing to do with any of it," he says, and his voice is perhaps just a bit louder than he intended. He takes a breath. "Both sides have been trying to use me as a mascot or a sob story or worse since I was a boy."

"But why would they do that?" Edith asks.

"Because my father accidentally blew himself up in our flat when I was five," he says, as matter-of-factly as he can. "He was trying to put together a bomb in our kitchen. I was the only other one in the house. There was an explosion, and a fire, and they barely got me out alive." Sybil makes a soft noise beside him, and he winces a bit.

"I think I remember seeing that on the news when it happened," Sybil's mother murmurs. "That was you?"

"Yeah, it was me," he says, looking down at his plate, pushing the remnants of his pudding around with his fork. "I never asked for any of it, not from the Provos and not from Stormont. I don't endorse anyone. But it's difficult to prevent people from talking about it. It's fact. It happened."

"Really, this is more than enough, Mary. I'm so sorry, Tom. My daughter has treated you abominably tonight, and you don't deserve that," Lord Grantham offers, placing his napkin on the table. "Shall we move to the library?"

"I just think it's important that we all realise what's happening here," Mary says.

"What's happening here is that Tom and I are going to have a baby," Sybil replies, voice breaking. "Your niece or nephew, Mary. Why must you be so cruel to me?"

Mary shakes her head. "Darling, it would be cruel to let you suffer under the delusion that he's got no ulterior motives about your relationship. How could you really think he had no idea who you were, that he didn't see an opportunity that was too good to pass up?"

"Good lord, Mary, give it a rest," Edith snips.

He feels like he's suffocating. "What's happened has happened. He didn't know I was the prime minister's daughter when we got together," Sybil argues. Her voice is small. "Why can't you possibly believe that anyone would want me just because I'm me, not because I'm Lady Sybil Crawley?"

"I never said that," Mary replies quickly.

"You might as well have," Sybil cries, and he presses a hand to her back, trying to be comforting. She turns to him with tears in her eyes. "This was a terrible idea. Let's go. I want to go home."

"Sybil—" her mother begins.

She holds up a hand. "I don't feel well. I'm so sorry, Granny. Please, Tom?"

"Of course," he answers, rising and helping her to her feet.

"Sybil, darling, please," her grandmother says. "Your sister's as nervous for you as the rest of us. There's no need to flee like a fugitive."

Sybil has a death grip on his hand. "Don't bother with the car," she says. "We'll make our own way home. Thank you for dinner, Granny."

The dowager starts to speak again, but then she merely sighs and nods. He thinks for a moment that he's supposed to echo the thanks, to reiterate that he was pleased to meet all of them, but in reality he's fuming. He's grateful when Sybil leads him out of the room, out of the house, and on to the quiet pavement.

"Let's get a cab," he suggests, but she shakes her head.

"Marble Arch isn't far, we can take the tube. I can walk that far. The fresh air will do me some good."

* * *

><p>She tells him that she doesn't want to be by herself, so he comes with her to her flat. "This is really nice," he says as they walk through the front door. It's all wide open space, wooden floors, and soft furniture. Bookshelves line one wall, a good number of the spines marked by bright orange stickers denoting them as used textbooks. A reproduction poster from the Great Exhibition is propped on the mantle above a small fireplace.<p>

"Nice because it was bought with their money," she mutters, tossing her keys in a dish by the door and sinking down into the sofa, head in her hands.

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just follows her lead and perches beside her. Her eyes close as she leans her head back. "Do you want anything?" he asks. "Water, something?"

"I should probably be asking you that," she sighs. "I'm a terrible host, I'm so sorry."

"I'm fine," he says. She opens her eyes and looks at him in disbelief. "I mean, I'm exhausted after that, but I'm fine."

"That's why your back has scars on it?" she asks softly. "From the explosion?"

"Erm, yeah," he replies. "They've faded some, but they've never gone away. I've had lots of operations."

"Can I see?" She blushes. "I mean, I remember a little, but…"

He hesitates, but then he pulls his jumper over his head and begins to unbutton the shirt underneath. "It's not pretty."

"I can't imagine it would be," she says, her eyes steady on him as he peels the shirt away. It's cold in her living room, and he shivers as he turns to let her examine him.

Her fingertips trace the mottled flesh softly. "It's hard to believe these are remnants from when you were only five," she says. "You were just a baby, really."

"The scars are mostly from the grafts, not from the accident," he explains. "The last of those was when I was fifteen, I think."

"Can you feel – I mean, when someone touches you there?"

He grits his teeth as her soft fingers explore his back. "Yes."

Her hands on his shoulders urge him to turn back to face her, and he does – she's crying. "I'm so sorry about tonight. I knew Mary was going to be difficult, but I had no idea she was going to do that."

"I…" He doesn't know how to respond.

"Tom," she whispers, and he decides. He's leaning in, and he's kissing her hard, and she's wrapping herself around him as he presses her back against the couch cushions.

He tries to tell her with no words that he does care about her, that he wants to be near her because she's her, not because of who her parents are. As she moans softly against his mouth, he realises that there's no way to prove those things. She's just going to have to trust him. He trusts her when she says that the baby growing inside her is his child, she's got to trust that he's not using her.

He pulls back, and she looks so vulnerable beneath him – soft, red-rimmed eyes, swollen lips, pink cheeks. "Will you stay with me?" she asks, and he nods, not knowing if she means for the night or for the duration.

In her bedroom, he strips down to his boxers as she hangs up her dress. He catches a glimpse of her body before she pulls her nightdress over her head – flat stomach, swollen breasts. She looks over and sees him watching her, and she hugs her arms around her middle. He steps toward her and curls his hands around her biceps, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Please don't worry about dinner. I've a tougher skin than that."

"None of what happened tonight was fair," she whispers. "It's going to be a long time before I can forgive them." She lets her head fall against his chest, forehead to his collarbone. "A very long time."

"Come on," he urges. "Let's sleep?"

She nods. "Okay."

They slide beneath the duvet, and she presses herself to his side, just as she did that night at his flat. He's asleep almost as fast as he can close his eyes.

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><p>He wakes abruptly in the dim light of the early morning and has trouble at first deciding where he is – the space of her bedroom is unfamiliar, with its soft sage green walls and dark wooden furniture. He reaches out for her instinctively and finds her side of the bed cold, and only then does he register the light filtering through a crack in the door to the loo.<p>

He steps carefully over to the door, mindful of the dark, and quickly realises that she's in the bathroom and that she's been sick. He cringes a little bit – suddenly the fact that she really, honestly is pregnant slaps him across the face. As he opens the door a wee bit wider, he can see her crouched in front of the toilet, trying to hold back her dark hair as she heaves.

For a moment, he thinks he should retreat, should give her some space and privacy. But for some reason, that makes him incredibly sad – the thought of her having to sit and vomit on the bathroom floor all alone, with no partner to try to make her feel better and no family to ring to complain about how awful the first months are. Without him, she is utterly by herself in this, and the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders terrifies him. _You made her pregnant_, he berates himself. _This is your fault_.

He shuffles a bit in the doorway and then steps in, shivering a bit in the early morning cold. The tile floor is freezing under his feet, so he goes back quickly to the bedroom and snags a throw blanket off the edge of her bed. He blinks in the bright light as he kneels down and wraps the blanket around her, tucking it under her bare knees, and only then does she seem to realise that he's with her in the room. Startled, she sits up suddenly, and then groans, leaning her head back over the toilet.

What else? He surveys the room, spots a hair elastic sitting on the countertop, and clumsily pulls her unruly hair back from her face. A cool damp facecloth on the back of her neck, a small cup of water set on the floor beside her. When he runs out of helpful things to do, he simply sits down on the floor behind her and rubs her back, trying to soothe her.

Eventually, she sits up, closing the toilet lid and pressing down on the lever to flush, resting her forearm on the lid and her head on her forearm. He opens his mouth, trying to think of what he should say, but can't find the words he wants, doesn't even know what words he _should_ want. But just then, she sits up again and scoots back against him, leaning her head back against his chest. He folds his arms around her, holds her close, and she sighs.

"Is it always that bad?" he asks quietly.

She hesitates, looks at him for a long moment over her shoulder, eyes glassy and red, face ashen, and then nods. "Yes."

"For a long time?"

"For a couple of weeks." She pulls the cloth off the back of her neck, now surely warm from the heat of her body, and wipes at her face, her mouth. "It's worse in the morning, but I'm nauseous all the time. I had to phone in to work one morning because I could hardly get off the floor."

He presses his mouth against the top of her head, and she burrows deeper into his embrace. They sit for a long time together, the back of his legs going nearly numb against the cold tile, until she shifts and reaches down to help him off the floor.

"It's six," she rasps, wrapping the blanket around her body. "We should probably both get going."

"Yeah," he confirms. "I have to run home first, so I'll need to call for a taxi."

"I can do that for you," she says, regarding him with bright eyes. "Tom?"

"Hm?"

She shakes her head and lets the blanket drop to the floor as she reaches up and hugs him tightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She pulls back without a word, just nodding a little, and slips out the door.

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><p>They dress, she in clothes for work, he in clothes from the night before, and she packs up her work bag as he watches. "Ready?" she asks. "The cab will be here in a few minutes."<p>

He nods, shrugging on his trench coat and raking a hand through his hair. He doesn't want to leave her. Oh, God. He's done for, completely away in the head over her. "Let me cook you dinner tonight."

She waves a hand dismissively. "No, no…"

"No, I mean it. I'll make dinner, you can bring your favourite film, and we'll camp out on my living room floor like kids."

She hesitates, then gives him a small smile. "Okay."

"Okay?" He wasn't expecting such a quick capitulation.

"Yes, don't make me take it back!" she exclaims, grabbing an apple out of a bowl on the dining table and tucking it in her bag. She finds her keys and they head out into the hallway. After she locks the door, she holds out a hand – he stares at her, confused, but then slips his hand into hers, curling their fingers together as they amble down the stairs to the building's front door.

He's thinking about how soft her hand is, how naturally her fingers fit with his – no awkward angling of knuckles, no rough spots – and he's so lost in his own mind that he doesn't see the flash of the photographer's camera until after the first picture has already been taken.


	7. Chapter 7

_Note: Thanks so much for the great feedback on the last chapter! Some of you have asked specific questions, and I'm going to try to respond to some of them on my fic Tumblr, thetwistedroots. (It's linked in my profile.)_

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><p>The headlines start coming the next morning. Their surprised faces and intertwined fingers are splashed all over almost ever paper in the city – the <em>Independent<em> excepted, of course. LADY 'S LABOUR LAD, trumpets the _Mail_. LADY SYBIL'S SECRET, gurgles the _Express_. He gives them no points for the literary reference, and Sybil texts him, furious about the misappropriation of classic literature by the press – "couldn't they leave poor braddon out of this?" The _Sun_ runs with LOVER OF THE OPPOSITION, which makes him groan out loud when he reads it. All of the papers are stacked prominently on his desk when he gets to work, of course. He swears he can hear Ian snickering somewhere in the background.

He drops off his bag and his coat and heads straight for Corin's office. He's sitting calmly inside, paging through the _Guardian_, and he beckons Tom inside without even looking up.

"So," Corin begins as Tom closes the door firmly behind him.

"I assume you've seen them," Tom says, gesturing at the newspapers that blanket Corin's desk.

"I have," Corin replies calmly. "Have a seat."

Tom obeys, fidgeting a bit in his chair. His stomach feels like it's twisting about inside. "I'm not sure what to say except that it's true."

Corin finally looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "How did this happen?"

He takes a deep breath and sits back in the chair further. "We met at a party. I didn't know who she was."

"Presumably you do now."

He coughs. "I've known for a while now."

Corin stands up and paces behind his desk. "What do you want me to say to you, Tom? That this is stupid? That you're jeopardizing everything we've been working for? I'm sure I don't need to insult you by suggesting that you don't know both of those things already."

"I do know those things." His mouth has gone dry.

"But she's worth it anyway? Good lord, Tom. How many girls are there in this city? Is a fling with her really, really worth it?"

"It's not…" he begins, then snaps his mouth closed tightly.

"And what if it somehow sways the election her father's way, have you even thought about that? This isn't about gamesmanship, for God's sake," Corin spits. "If we're the party in power, we can make people's lives better, we can make things fairer, we can get good things done." He shakes his head. "I thought that's why you were willing to stay in politics, even after everything else – because you wanted to try to make things better."

"I do want that," he insists. "Jesus, Corin, haven't we worked together long enough for you to trust me at all?"

"I don't know," he says, sinking heavily into his chair. "She's not just some girl, Tom. She's _Grantham's daughter_."

He takes a deep breath and lets his head fall into his hands. Christ. He's going to have to tell him.

"Well?" Corin presses. "What can you—"

"She's pregnant, Corin," he says softly. "The baby's mine."

Corin's mouth actually drops open. There's a long silence – the longest and most awkward he can remember in almost a decade of working with Corin.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Tom."

"I know."

"_Pregnant_?"

He rubs at the back of his neck. "Yes."

"There's an election next year."

"I am quite aware of that."

"Our opponent is her father, and you got her _pregnant_?"

He mumbles a bit, trying to make words out of sounds, and ends up just shaking his head.

"How many people know about this?"

He shakes his head again. "Everyone who reads a major tabloid newspaper, I'd wager."

"No, no, not just that they caught you holding her hand outside her flat at seven o'clock in the morning," Corin says. "About the pregnancy."

"Um," he replies. "The two of us. Her family. Her doctor. You, now. We're trying to keep it quiet." Well, he assumes they are – he realises that he hasn't actually asked about that. He sits forward. "If this were just a fling … that would be different. But I'm going to be a father, Corin. I won't abandon her, I couldn't do that to her. This isn't a casual thing."

Corin's face visibly softens, just a bit. "No, of course not." He blinks. "I'm not going to lie to you, Tom. This could be a really, really problematic thing."

He sighs. "I know you might have to sack me over this."

"I can't sack you unless you're not doing your job," Corin counters. "Have you been working against us this whole time, secret agent for the Granthams or something?"

"Are you joking?" Tom asks. "That's ridiculous."

Corin shrugs. "Well, then. If I find out that you're not loyal, that's a different story, or if the press gets too distracting, but for now … neither of you are politicians. You're both private citizens. We'll just sort of ignore it, as long as you can manage that. Good God, can you imagine the press if I sacked you over a romance – over a _pregnancy_? The sympathy would go straight to you, and to her, and to her father. They'd call me heartless." He frowns. "Probably it would be illegal to do that anyway, wouldn't it?"

"Probably. But really, Corin, I would understand."

"She's not like her sister, is she? I mean the one who works for her father."

"Mary? No, Sybil works for UNICEF." He rakes a hand through his hair. "She's not political. I mean, she's not in politics." He smirks a little, thinking about their conversation on the floor of his living room the night before, when she confessed that she voted in London last election instead of going up to Yorkshire to cast a ballot for her father. "She votes Labour, actually."

"Oh, Christ, of course she does. I'll bet dear old dad loves that," Corin says. "Of all the women in London, Tom…"

He snorts. "You're telling me."

Corin shakes his head and folds up the papers, pushing them aside. "When's she due?"

"May," he says, exhaling heavily. "I am … it's been a bit hard to imagine being a father, you know?"

"It was like that for me the first time, too." He follows Corin's glance over to the framed family picture propped on the desk – Corin's wife, Maeve, and their two sons, Jack and Henry. "You'll do well, I think." He levels a stern look at Tom. "Are you in love with her?"

"I don't know," he says, rushed. "I care for her. I'm committed to this."

Corin presses his lips together. "If you do anything to cross me, Tom, I'll have you out of here on your arse faster than you can think."

He feels blood rushing to his head, knows that his face is blazing red. "I know, Corin. Her family hasn't exactly been kind to me. There's no reason for you to distrust me."

"Make sure I don't find one." He stands and heads to the door, stopping for a moment to rest a heavy hand on Tom's shoulder. "And good luck with the other thing. Just … keep me informed, will you do that?"

He nods. "I will. Thanks."

Corin just claps his hand on Tom's shoulder once more before heading out the door.

* * *

><p>The single paparazzo in front of Sybil's apartment has multiplied by the time he heads over after work. He wonders how much the photographer earned from that single photo. It must have been a bundle. Not even forty-eight hours later, their faces are practically plastered all over the city. He's especially fond of the muppety expression of surprise the photographer managed to capture on his face. He wonders if he'll always be haunted by that awful open-mouthed photograph. They'll probably put it on his headstone, for fuck's sake.<p>

He can tell even from the bus stop, more than a block away, that there's a commotion. He flips up the collar of his coat and hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder. He stops for a second and looks around – a street vendor near the stop is selling the _Evening Standard_, which blessedly features neither him nor Sybil on the front page. He grabs a copy with a nod to the vendor and prepares to wield it like he's a medieval warrior heading into battle.

At the first flash, he shields his face with the paper and charges forward, his other hand shoved in his coat pocket. They shout at him, ask him questions, try to provoke him with words instead of gestures, and by the time Sybil buzzes him in, he's exhausted. He trudges up the stairs with his makeshift shield tucked under his arm and practically falls in to her apartment when she opens the door.

"They're still there?" She's got dark circles under her eyes.

He nods, dropping his bag on the floor beside her sofa and smiling wearily. "Did they give you a hard time of it?"

She shrugs and hugs her arms around her middle. "It was okay. I was fine." She chews a little at her bottom lip. "Did you talk to MacLeod?"

He motions for her to sit down on the sofa and takes off his coat, draping it over a chair. "It wasn't so bad. It was a lot better than I thought it was going to be, if I'm honest." He sits down at the opposite end of the sofa and rests his elbows on his knees. "He's concerned."

She lets out a heavy breath. "But he didn't sack you?"

"No, he didn't sack me. He wasn't pleased, but…" He hesitates, levels her with a nervous gaze. "I had to tell him about the baby."

Confusion – and, he thinks, perhaps fear? – flashes in her eyes. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"He didn't understand why I'd jeopardize my career, the entire campaign, everything, for a relationship." He takes a deep breath. "I had to make him understand that this wasn't something that I was going to break off, that this was serious."

"Of course it's serious," she says, drawing her knees up to her chest. "It's just … I don't know. I don't know."

He swallows. "I'm sorry, Sybil. Maybe I shouldn't have done it."

"Do you think he'll keep quiet about it? It's not a problem, it's just …"

"He won't say anything. Sybil—"

She clears her throat. "I'm just afraid of how ridiculous things are going to get when it's obvious. I mean, did you count the number of cameras outside tonight?"

He grimaces. "I held a newspaper in front of my face."

This, at least, makes her laugh a little. "What was the headline?"

Shit – oh, shit. Has he accidentally endorsed something remarkably stupid? God, the _Mail _will have a field day. He launches off the couch, scrambling for the paper and unfolding it. "Okay, good – it's just about Sarkozy's baby," he sighs with relief.

"That's still uncomfortably close to reality." She shifts a little.

He's feeling a little floundery, and he decides to try humour. "Hey, I am a far sight better than Sarko, thank you very much."

She smirks. "I'm not exactly Carla Bruni myself."

"You're right," he replies, earning a faux-shocked gasp from her. "What I mean is that you're much, much lovelier." He plants a kiss on the top of her head.

"I can't believe MacLeod was okay with everything," she says. Her eyes follow him as he leans against the wall.

"He wasn't, really." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I've worked with him for a long time, so he knows me pretty well, but he was shocked."

She just nods slowly.

"It's not you. He doesn't know you. It's just the situation that makes him nervous, I think."

"But surely if he knows you so well, he knows that he can trust you." She rubs her temples. "He has to know that you're not going to do anything stupid."

"I think he does."

"Hm." She stands and disappears into the kitchen.

He sits down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and closes his eyes. He's tired. His brain is buzzing – he's beginning to grow weary of the topic, and all he really wants to do is go home, put on his tracksuit bottoms, and fall asleep on his couch. _You're really a catch, Tom_, he thinks, sitting back. He can tell that she's tired, too – if they're not careful, he decides, they're both going to feel burned out and resentful.

Just as Sybil appears again, clutching a glass of water, his mobile springs to life. "Go on, you should get that," she directs, sipping slowly.

He nods, but when he sees the display, he hesitates. "Christ. It's my mother."

Her eyes widen. "Oh."

He grimaces as he answers the call. "Hi, Mam."

"Thomas Daniel, what am I seeing on my television screen?"

Sybil, apparently able to hear his mother from across the room, scurries to her bedroom. He sighs heavily. "What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean. You, holding the hand of the prime minister's daughter, looking like you've barely slept at all. What in the world have you gotten yourself into?"

"She's a nice girl, Mam. You would like her."

His mother actually snorts. "And what does Mr MacLeod think about her? Does he think she's a nice girl? Daughter of the prime minister you're trying out oust … for shame, Tom."

He feels like a broken record. "I didn't know she was the prime minister's daughter when we got together."

"Oh, so she conveniently failed to mention that, did she?"

"Mam." He sits down and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. "She's not like that."

"You've worked so hard, why would you let a woman ruin things for you? That's not like you."

"She's not ruining anything." He cringes. "It's not a casual thing. We're serious about this."

"Oh, are you now? So you've met her family, then?"

"I have. We had dinner at her grandmother's house last week."

His mother chuckles. "Buckingham Palace?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Mam."

His mother pauses. "Tom, I'm serious now. If they're taking photographs of you and putting them in the papers and on the telly…"

He realises that his mother's going to explode when she finds out about the baby, and not with happiness. She's just as radical as his father ever was, even if her brand of radicalism involves less violence and more rhetoric. Having a grandchild who's half aristocrat isn't going to go over well. "You'll like her. I'll introduce her to you next time you're here. I can't talk now, though."

"She's there?"

"She's not in the room," he says. "And it's just as well, with you shouting on about her." He shakes his head. "She's not a detriment to anything, Mam. I promise you that."

His mother is silent, and so he says goodbye quickly and ends the call, sitting back. He doesn't know how long he stays in that position, clutching his mobile loosely in one hand, but eventually Sybil's cool hand on his forehead startles him into alertness.

"I didn't hear anything," she promises. "But your voice sounded less than happy. I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" he asks. "She's difficult, always has been."

She rounds the sofa and sits down next to him. "Are we going to be like our parents, do you think? I mean – you know – with this one?"

"God, I hope not. Not like mine, anyway." He frowns. "My mother loves me, I know that, but she's just … she's just difficult. That's the only way I know to explain it."

"She thinks I'm taking advantage of you? Or that I'm ruining your career?"

"She doesn't know anything about any of this." He drapes one arm over her shoulders. "And you? Are you going to be like your parents?"

"I don't know," she says. "I'm not going to be prime minister, I know that much."

He snorts. "Good to know."

"Are you ever planning to become a politician?" she asks. "You know, just so I can plan the day that we cut ties completely."

"Charming. No, I'm good at the words. I'm not so good at the performance of them."

"Ah." She nods sagely. "That's good. We can stay friends then."

"Excellent. Let's call a press conference outside on the pavement. You can tell the photographers to naff off, because we plan to stay friends."

She laughs. "Simple, yet effective."

He smiles against her hair. "I told you I was good at words."


	8. Chapter 8

October slips into November in a blur of camera flashes, takeaway dinners, and blinking cursors. He tries to focus on work – there's a state visit coming up, plus the State Opening of Parliament, and his workload gets taller and taller. He wonders if Corin is testing him, but he figures he owes it to the man to prove that he can be counted on to finish the tasks he's given.

Things begin to get claustrophobic shortly after the first wave of photos and stories, when an intrepid reporter from the _Mail_ finally realises that yes, he is the same Tom Branson from that unfortunate event in Northern Ireland all those years ago. And then the story becomes more than just the tale of a Labour Romeo and his (nominally) Conservative Juliet; no, at that point each headline is a targeted, pointed statement about the IRA and terrorism and Lady Sybil's rather unfortunate connection. Two houses, yes, but one much more dignified than the other, if you ask the press.

After some initial angst, Sybil weathers the storm in public with a kind of placid grace that both impresses and slightly frightens him. She is impervious. She walks down the street, hand held firmly in his, and doesn't even look when a camera appears out of nowhere. He knows it isn't really as simple as all that, because he sleeps beside her every night, and when the eyes of the city and the nation are no longer upon her, she's restless and irritable, the child inside her growing a little each day.

They continue to be companionable and friendly together, testing the waters, debating various ideas and even arguing a bit about favourite books. (The day he lets it slip that he can't abide Austen, he thinks that Sybil might decide to give up their child for adoption rather than raise the offspring of such a man.) They haven't touched much, have kissed even less – he wants her, but at the same time he isn't sure what he's supposed to want, and she seems too nervous to make even the smallest advance. But the more he's around her, the more he likes her; and the more he likes her, the more terrified he becomes that she will smash his heart into pieces, just as every woman he's ever even so much as fancied has done. But he continues on, shielding his eyes from the flashes and trying very, very hard to shield his heart against the blow that he knows she'll deal him eventually.

* * *

><p>He gets the summons while he's at work. The phone on his desk rings – he nearly jumps; as they generally use e-mail to communicate around the office, and the sound of the telephone is a strange rarity – and on the other end of the line is a posh woman. "The Dowager Countess of Grantham would like to invite you for tea this afternoon," she informs him, her tone business-like and a little brusque. "What time would be convenient for you?"<p>

He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"We'll send a car to your workplace. What time would you like it to arrive?"

"I can't just leave work, I…" He glances around the room. If he's honest, he's been a bit worried about how withdrawn Sybil has seemed in the past week or so. (Well, he assumes that's not just her general demeanour – surely more than three months is long enough to establish a good idea of her personality.) He knows she hasn't been speaking to her family, save one conversation with Matthew about possible legal actions against the photographers who are plaguing them. Maybe a meeting with her grandmother will help mend some of the bridges they've burned. Either that, or Sybil will absolutely murder him.

"Four," he says decisively. "I can be ready to leave at four o'clock." He gives the woman directions about where the car should pick him up, and he's swiftly reminded that the Crawleys are perfectly aware of how the parking situation around Westminster works. Right. Of course they are.

He hangs up the receiver and finds himself sweating a little. He looks down at his clothes – plain trousers, standard striped shirt, decent enough shoes. It'll have to do.

The car that pulls up to collect him this time is a Rolls-Royce. He finds himself salivating. How much bloody money do these people have? The driver nods at him as he slides inside the backseat, letting his work bag fall with a thump onto the floor. The streetlights of London blur as they navigate past Victoria Station and the tall brick walls that enclose the gardens of Buckingham Palace. He wonders if this is what the PM feels like when he's summoned by the Queen. (Well, another PM, anyway, not a Grantham figure who's been hobnobbing with royalty since he was a child.)

He swallows as the car makes the turn into Mayfair and slows in front of Grantham House. He's greeted at the door by the same imposing butler as before, who offers him the most cursory of greetings before ushering him into the study. Sybil's grandmother is already there, perched in a wingback chair, stick in hand.

"Good afternoon, Tom," she says with a smile. "Do have a seat."

He's still got his coat on, but soon enough a member of the staff materialises behind him and spirits his things away to some unknown corner of the house. "How are you, Lady Grantham?"

"Oh, oh, just fine," she says. "Though I apologize if I yawn. It's not that I find you dull. All of the time switching this time of year throws me so off balance."

"I was surprised at how dark it was when I left the building today," he replies. "I'm never ready for it."

She nods, then gestures toward the tea things that are arranged on a small table beside her. "Shall we?"

"Um, yes, I guess so." The dowager pours two cups and passes one to him, the cup clinking a bit against the saucer as he takes it in his hands. "Lady Grantham, I…"

"You wonder why I asked you here today, I assume?" she interrupts lightly. He nods, taking a small sip – the tea's a wee bit hot, and he tries not to react. "Yes, I imagine you would wonder. But if my granddaughter is going to have your child, I thought it was time that you and I had a bit of a chat." She smiles.

Well, that sounds promising. "Okay."

"Well, good, I'm glad you approve!" she replies with a sniff, sipping slowly. She sets the still-full cup back on the table beside her. "I think we've already established the challenges of your background."

He snorts – he can imagine his mother saying much the same to Sybil. "I think so."

"But that's not to say that you've erased every measure of concern, you understand." She levels him with a gaze that fully unnerves him. "My eldest granddaughter may lack tact at times, Tom, but that doesn't mean that she wasn't articulating fears held by many of the rest of us."

His mouth goes a bit dry, and he shakes his head. "I'm not sure how I can convince you that I'm not involved in anything … questionable. My parents were. I can't deny that." He fidgets. "But my father's dead, and my mother's not out to harm anyone. We've seen enough death and violence, I think."

"Growing up in Belfast at that time must have been difficult."

He remembers police sirens, explosions, gunshots, but mostly the paranoia that travelled alongside him throughout his childhood – be aware, keep watch, know your surroundings. Years of checking underneath cars before driving, of avoiding crowds. "It wasn't always easy, no."

"I'm surprised your mother didn't remove you from the situation."

"She had friends there, and a job."

"But my sources tell me that she's from the Republic – that she was born in Dublin." Her spoon clinks as she stirs extra honey into her tea. "Once your father was dead, I can't imagine why she wouldn't want to take you back to her family."

"She didn't have much family left." He leans on the arm of his chair. "If I'm honest, really, I think it was because of the house. The PIRA raised money – like a pension for a widow, sort of – and bought her a house. She loves that house. She didn't want to leave it."

"Even though her son was the subject of controversial public conversation? It's just surprising to me, that's all." She sips again. "I know I'm interrogating a bit, but I do relate to you perhaps more than you think. I did live through the Blitz as a child. It's not the same, of course, but I can imagine the terror may have been similar."

"Well, why didn't your mother take you out of the city to remove _you_ from that situation?" he asks, immediately wishing he could take back both the words and his slightly impertinent tone.

She hoots a bit with laughter. "Well. I was waiting for a bit of personality from you. If you must know, my father worked with Churchill's war cabinet. My mother was a lady-in-waiting to the queen – the Queen Mother. They weren't leaving, and they wanted me with them."

"I suppose maybe my mother wanted me with her, too," he said. "And my doctors were in Belfast. I was in hospital a lot."

She makes a sympathetic noise. "I suppose so. You certainly were one of your father's casualties. But you know that you weren't the only one, don't you?"

He feels heat rising to his face. "I'm not sure what you mean, Lady Grantham," he says as smoothly as he can.

She sips again, and then pushes the cup away. "My late husband and I were close friends of Tony Berry. The rest of the family doesn't seem to know that your father was quite probably one of the men in Brighton, Tom, but I do."

His chest tightens. "I don't know all of the details of that."

"But you do know some of them, I think. Magee was one of your father's friends, and your father was out of prison at the time."

He shakes his head. "My father's name has never been publicly connected with that bombing." He worries that his hands are starting to tremble.

The dowager's face is drawn. "It is difficult for me to know that my granddaughter is having a child with a man whose father may – _may_ – have taken part in actions that killed a dear friend. You must understand that."

He feels himself start to panic. Would she try to separate them because of something his father might have done decades ago? Surely not. Surely not. He tries to hold his voice steady, but it can't help wavering. "Lady Grantham, I'm sorry about that, I'm sorry that any of that happened. But I am not my father. I may believe in some of the high ideals he believed in, but I use words to try to make change, not bombs and guns. Do you have any idea how … how _ashamed_ I am of what he did? And how horrible it is to have to be ashamed of your father? I would never want that for my child, never."

"We are not our parents, that's the truth," she agrees, pursing her lips. "But we are what our circumstances make us. Those are your circumstances, and now you have fathered a child with my granddaughter. Her circumstances are quite different from yours."

"I know that," he says softly. "Sybil is wonderful. And we are different, yes, but not completely. And I have spent my entire adult life trying to carve a path for myself outside of the shadow of my father. I want my child to be able to do the same."

"When are you going to marry her?"

The question knocks him off guard, but on reflection, he can't imagine why it should have done. Why no one had asked that before boggles his mind. Isn't that what they all should have been asking him? Why had Lord Grantham not knocked down his door with his hunting rifle yet, ready to drag him down to the registry office to start the paperwork? "We haven't discussed that," he says dully, rather blindsided.

"Well, I think it's high time that you do. A child deserves stability, Tom. My granddaughter deserves it, too."

"I agree. She and I are working together to make sure that happens."

Her eyes narrow. "I hope that's true." She sighs. "I don't dislike you, Tom. Sybil is a good girl, and she's a good judge of character most of the time. But the young man she was dating in university was quite cruel to her in the end, and I worry about her. You don't seem cruel. Are you cruel?"

"No, ma'am," he answers, feeling foolish again. "I don't think I am."

"I know the modern thing to do is to be equal partners in a relationship, but I want you to take care of her, too. We all need that sometimes."

"I've been trying my best," he says honestly. "I don't always know what I'm supposed to do, but I try."

"Don't abandon her."

"I won't," he says, and to his horror, his voice breaks a bit. He knows that he won't. He knows it. Of course he does. He loves her, and he's finding that he's already starting to love their baby, too, or at least the _idea_ of their baby. It's terrifying, but there it is.

"Don't take advantage of her money. Don't take her money at all, for that matter."

He knows Sybil is wealthy, but he hasn't actually given much thought to how much she has – he'd figured she didn't have much of her own at her disposal. She doesn't _act_ like she does, not really. "I won't. I don't know how much money she has. We don't talk about that."

"No, I can't imagine she'd say much, not after last time." She clears her throat. "I want you to know that we love her more than she can imagine. I know she's angry. I would have been angry, too, if I had been confronted the way Mary ambushed both of you at that dinner. She chose her moment incredibly poorly, incredibly." She sighs. "Even if she doesn't want to speak to most of us for some time – even if she says that she never wants to see us again – I want you to know that you are not involved with a woman who is disposable or who has no support system. She has a great deal of support. And if you are committed to her, you will have our support, too, no matter your family background or your politics. Do I make myself clear?"

He doesn't know what to say, just murmurs his assent and stands on shaky legs. "Yes. Thank you, Lady Grantham," he whispers. "I just – thank you."

She stands a bit shakily and presses a button on the table – calling one of the members of her staff, he supposes. The moments while he waits for his coat are interminable. He wants to see Sybil – he wants to go to her and make promises, say careful things, hold her tightly in his arms. It's as if he's going to burst right out of his skin. Finally, finally, the butler returns with his coat and his bag, and he fairly sprints out of the house and on to the street.

* * *

><p>He's in a taxi, headed toward her flat, when he realises that his mobile is beeping from the depths of his bag. He fishes it out – there's a voicemail, and he doesn't recognise the number. The voice is unfamiliar, too. His brain swims until he puts together "Sybil," "A&amp;E," and "St Thomas' Hospital."<p>

He wonders if this is what having a heart attack feels like. "Stop, wait," he shouts at the cabbie. "We need to turn around, please – hurry, please…"


	9. Chapter 9

_Note: I'm so thrilled that this story has been so well received - seeing the hundredth review motivated me to publish this chapter a day earlier than I'd intended. Thank you all so much for your feedback - I'm glad you're sticking with me so far!_

* * *

><p>The cab isn't driving fast enough. He sits forward, as if by doing so he might somehow compel the vehicle to speed up. He's listened to the voicemail twice, and the only things that he knows for sure are that Sybil has somehow been injured, is in hospital close to Westminster, and has been asking for him. That must mean she's conscious – that must be good. But he can't stop imagining the worst – Sybil dying, the baby dead, Sybil seriously hurt … he presses his palms together and rests his lips against his steepled fingers. "Please," he mouths silently as they cross the Thames.<p>

The emergency department at St Thomas' is relatively quiet as he bursts through the doors of the entrance from Lambeth Palace Road. It's early, he reasons, and the heavy A&E traffic of the evening and night hours has yet to begin trickling in. He finds a desk, tries to be as discreet as possible as he asks after Sybil, and is ushered, to his absolute terror, to an emergency gynaecological unit on the eighth floor.

"It's mostly a precaution, but her doctor wanted to have a quick scan done to make sure everything's okay," the nurse says, attempting to calm him even as she looks at him a bit strangely. He wants to shout that yes, she's seen him in the papers, and yes, he's fathered a baby that the press don't yet know about, and yes, she needs to keep her mouth shut.

But he just nods and lets her show him to a small private room set apart on its own. He can see Sybil lying on her side on a gurney; she's speaking to someone, but she looks fine. He swallows – perhaps this is all just a series of precautions. Maybe he's gotten himself all worked up for nothing. But as he opens the door and nervously steps inside, she turns her head, and a massive purple bruise is rising all down the side of her face. The skin beside her eye has been split; a row of neat sutures keeps the wound tightly bound.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath. "I'm so sorry," he stammers, watching as the other person – a woman in scrubs – nods and murmurs that she'll give them a moment alone. "I was … I was in a meeting, and my mobile was switched off. I got here as fast as I could … what happened?"

"It was an accident," Sybil says deliberately, as if to really impress upon him the importance of that word. She looks small and drawn, still in her clothes from work, but with her hair tangled and messy and one of her wrists bandaged.

"But what kind of accident?" He sits down in a chair that's been placed beside the bed and pulls at the knees of his trousers. "A car accident? Sybil—"

"Don't get upset," she warns.

He shakes his head. "Saying that pretty much guarantees that I will, doesn't it?"

She sighs, and his throat tightens when she winces at her own action. "I was going home after work, and I got distracted, and I fell down."

"Distracted by what?"

"A camera flash," she says. "A photographer flashed a camera in my face, and I got tripped up somehow, and I hit my head and my hand on the pavement."

His heart starts pounding. "Jesus _Christ_," he breathes. "Did it knock you out?"

She bites her lip as she nods slowly and carefully. "But a lady who lives in the flat above mine was coming home, too, and she's the one who called for the ambulance, I think. She came with me, just left a little while ago, so it's fine. I promise. I'm okay."

He scrubs at his face with his fingers. "Have they said – is it a concussion? Did you fracture anything?"

"Nothing fractured. But they said it is a concussion," she admits, her eyes a little watery. "My head really hurts."

"Shit. Shit, I'll bet it does." He reaches for her uninjured hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips lightly to her palm. "Sybil, the nurse said they want to do a scan, because the baby—"

"They think everything's fine, they just want to check." She grips his hand tightly. "Because of how I fell, mostly, but I've also – I've had sort of weird cramps and spotting since I came in." She frowns. "Sorry, that's gross."

"It's okay, it's fine," he says, stroking the back of her hand.

Just then the radiographer enters the room, smiling at both of them. "Hello," she says kindly, holding out her hand to him. "I'm Nancy."

"Tom," he replies, releasing Sybil's fingers just long enough to shake the woman's hand.

"I hope you won't be offended when I say that I know who you are," she says with a slight laugh.

He just grunts a little, and Sybil squeezes his hand in a silent warning. Nancy seems not to notice, busying herself with the equipment that she wheels over from the corner. "Well, these aren't the most ideal circumstances, but Sybil told me earlier that you haven't gotten to hear the baby's heartbeat yet," she says, a little too brightly, as she dims the lights in the room.

"No, not yet," he says quietly. Sybil lies back, slipping her hand out of his as she pushes up her shirt and unbuttons her trousers so that Nancy can spread goo all over her stomach. He hasn't really spent much time staring at her bare belly, and he realises for the first time that there's just the faintest bit of a soft swelling there now.

"Alright," she says. "Let's see what we've got here, shall we?"

Sybil turns her head slightly so that she can look at him, smiling weakly. Her fingers sift through his. He just nods, his brain a bit on edge. He can't believe they hurt her. They have to take legal action now. Things can't go on this way…

But then he hears a soft, rolling _swoosh_ from the direction of the machine as she rolls some sort of instrument over Sybil's bare abdomen, and his entire brain quiets.

"We've certainly got a baby here," Nancy says with a smile. She points at the fuzzy grey image on the monitor. He feels like someone has stuck cotton in his mouth. He's frozen in place. "Here's the head, and the spine." She traces her finger across the screen.

They watch quietly for a while; every now and then Nancy interprets the image for them. He thinks he can see fingers and toes, and then, just as he's figured out the image, the foetus moves suddenly, wriggling about, causing Nancy to laugh.

"Can you feel that?" he asks Sybil.

"No," she says softly, sounding just as enraptured as he feels.

Holy fuck, he thinks. That's his son or daughter. "Everything looks normal," Nancy says. "The heartbeat sounds fast, I know, but that's the way it's supposed to be. And we're still measuring at twelve weeks."

"So still May?" he asks, and she nods.

"Would you like a picture?"

"Yes, we would," Sybil says, her voice a bit croaky. "I know we have to pay – can we have two?"

He can't take his eyes off the screen, off the tiny, wriggling being that the two of them have made. Not just an idea anymore – that's their child. He can barely breathe.

But then the machine is switched off and rolled away, and Sybil is cleaned up and helped to the edge of the gurney. She's unsteady and seems absolutely exhausted, and he lets her lean against him as they go over care instructions with a nurse – how often she can sleep, when he's supposed to wake her, what she can and cannot take to manage the pain.

There's a horrific list of symptoms that would require another visit to hospital, and he wonders fleetingly how he's supposed to differentiate between concussion vomiting and the morning sickness that often manifests itself as afternoon sickness or just-before-bed sickness or really any-time-at-all sickness. He strokes the top of her head softly, and she leans the unblemished side of her face against his ribs with a sigh. It seems he's going to get to prove to the Crawleys that he can care for their daughter far earlier than he'd anticipated.

* * *

><p>She gives him permission to send Edith to her flat to collect several bags of her belongings. They take a cab back to his place, where they slowly climb the stairs to his door. He helps her into her pyjamas and gives her the paracetemol tablets that the nurse sent home with them before tucking her into bed, telling her that he'll wake her in a few hours. She just reaches up and fleetingly touches his face before slipping into sleep.<p>

He sits down on his couch with a heavy sigh, glancing down at the pile of medical documents on the coffee table. He pulls the two sonogram pictures out from the pile and arranges them on top, taking a long moment to decipher the shape of their baby from amid the mass of grey and black. He rests his chin on his fist, swallowing hard, and traces the image with his fingers.

A knock at the door half an hour later yields Edith, with several bags of Sybil's things in tow. "I didn't really know what to bring," she says apologetically. "So I brought lots of clothes, her toilet bag, some books…"

He nods. "I'm sure that'll be fine for now. Thank you for doing this."

She smiles quietly. "Well, one of my sisters lets me treat her like family. I shouldn't like the squander that opportunity." She hesitates. "Can I look in on her? Is she sleeping?"

He directs her to the bedroom door, and she slips inside for a few minutes, worrying at her bottom lip when she returns. "It looks terrible."

"Her head's just about killing her, I think." He crosses his arms over his chest. "It's definitely a concussion."

Edith shakes her head and exhales loudly. "While I was at Sybil's I stopped by to thank Mrs Tyler for helping her."

"That's good, that's – thank you for doing that." He's not even met the neighbour who came to Sybil's aid that afternoon.

"She told me that she thinks one of the photographers was carrying a video camera," Edith explains. "That perhaps he was filming when Sybil fell."

"Or was tripped."

"Is that what she told you?"

He clears his throat. "No. She said that a flash startled her, and she lost her balance. And maybe that's what happened. But they've been so relentless over the past few weeks…" He shrugs. "I just think it's a possibility. I know they've come close to hitting me a couple of times, whether it was intentional or not."

She gives him a look. "But she's going to be fine, isn't she? The baby's fine?"

"They seemed to think that she'd recover quickly enough, and yeah, the baby's fine. They did a scan." He retrieves one of the pictures and presses it into Edith's hands.

"Oh, goodness," she says softly. "That's it?" She looks up. "I didn't mean _it_ – your baby's not an it – I meant he or she or…" She gazes down at the picture, then pulls out her mobile and snaps a quick photo of the image. "I can't believe she's having a baby."

He just nods slowly.

"Listen, Tom – I'm not saying that I think that anyone hurt Sybil on purpose, I don't really think that's what happened. I know you're upset and angry, but … anyway." She punches a few buttons on her phone. "I'm texting you Matthew's number. I think we should try to find out if there's video footage. At the very least, even if it's just an accident, it's pretty good evidence for a PCC complaint."

"We've talked about it a little even before this. Neither of us is a celebrity or a public figure – I don't care if your father is the PM, she's not public property."

"You don't have to convince me of that," Edith replies with a small smile. "Anyway. Call Matthew. It's not his area exactly, but he'll know who you should call." She picks up her handbag and turns to leave, adding, "And please, please let us know how she's feeling."

"I'll tell her you wanted to know. Maybe she'll want to call you." He may have had tea with the dowager, but he's not about to go behind Sybil's back and feed information to her family if she doesn't want that.

"Thanks. Take care of her."

"I will. Thanks again." He shuts the door and turns the locks.

* * *

><p>Sybil's irritable and cranky when he wakes her for the first time, growing even more so when he refuses her more medication. "Doctor's orders," he says, rubbing her back, trying to soothe her.<p>

"Damn it," she mutters, burrowing her face into the pillow and groaning softly. "Don't go, please don't go."

His throat tightens. "I won't. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He kneads at her neck and shoulders until she's sleeping once more.

It's getting late, but he picks up his mobile and sits down at the dining room table, dialing Corin's personal number. "Sorry," he begins when Corin answers the phone abruptly. "I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

"Have you picked up some covert information from Grantham?" he asks sarcastically.

"Corin," he groans. "Sybil's been hurt. I wanted to let you know that I'll have to work from my flat tomorrow."

His boss's tone immediately turns apologetic. "What happened?"

He gives a quick outline of the evening, trying to condense as much as he can while still impressing the gravity of the situation on Corin. "So, they said she can't be left alone for seventy-two hours, so I might have to take Friday, too."

"We've got Skype, it shouldn't be a problem," Corin assures him. "And it will piss John off, which might make you feel marginally better."

He chuckles. "Fringe benefit."

"Is the baby okay?"

"They did a scan and didn't find any problems. It's just Sybil."

"Well, take care of her."

"I think we're going to file a complaint about the photographers."

"PCC?"

"Yes. Just so it's not a surprise to you."

"After some of the pictures I've seen in the papers, I'm surprised you haven't done something yet, honestly." Corin clears his throat. "Anyway. Thanks for letting me know. We'll speak in the morning, during the scheduled meeting time, if that's okay."

"That should work. Thanks." He ends the call and sits back. He thinks about calling Matthew Crawley now, but he honestly just wants to go to bed, to lie down beside her. He shuts off the lights, double-checks the locks, and heads to the bedroom.

Sybil is curled up, fast asleep, on one side of his bed. As he strips down to his boxer briefs, he takes the chance to really have a good look at the bruise, which has darkened even since they arrived back at his flat. He frowns. Bastards. Utter, utter bastards.

He sets his the alarm on his phone for Sybil's next wake-up call and slides under the blankets, running his fingers gently across her abdomen. He tries to reconcile the fuzzy sonogram image with the flesh-and-blood Sybil sleeping beside him, tracing the baby's shape around her tummy button. It's a long time before he can finally fall asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Sybil sleeps on and off for most of the next day, and by Friday, she's starting to get restless. "I'm going to go crazy in this room," she pouts, sitting up in bed in a pair of too-big pyjamas with fluffy white clouds all over them.

"I'll be gone for twenty minutes max," he promises. "And then I'll come back and entertain you like the trained monkey I am."

"I'm beginning to forget what it's like to be outside."

He snorts. "Calm down, drama queen." He leans over and kisses her cheek, laughing as she scowls. "Twenty minutes. Do not go anywhere. I've got my phone if you need me."

He buttons up his coat and grabs his wallet and keys as he heads out. The air outside is crisp after yesterday's rains. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets as he strolls over to the newsagent nearest his building and surveys the papers. They're not on any of the front pages, he realises with relief. The photo of Sybil that ran on several tabloids the day before, accompanied by headlines decrying the actions of the paparazzi, was truly disgusting. The photographers were such cretins, the press had sniffed, but they'd been more than happy to pay for and print the picture anyway.

"I'll have a _Guardian_ and a _Telegraph_," he says, watching as the man behind the counter folds up his copies. "And…" He surveys the sweets – surely there's something Sybil can have a bit of. "Is that bonfire toffee?"

He nods. "Just about the last of it."

"Some of that, too, then." He waits for his change and then heads back, newspapers folded under his arm.

She's curled up in the duvet, scrolling through messages on her mobile, when he returns. "Here, heads up," he says, tossing the bag of toffee in her direction.

She fumbles it and frowns as she moves her head too quickly. "Good lord, Tom, concussion, remember?" But she perks up when she sees what's been tossed at her. "Oh, I used to love this stuff!"

He sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes. "'Used to,' as in, 'I once loved this, but now I find it utterly revolting'?"

"No, as in I loved it when I was a child but I haven't had it in ages." She rips into the bag and unwraps one, popping it in her mouth. "Surely they don't do Guy Fawkes in Belfast," she says around the sweet.

"Uh, no," he says, sitting back and unfolding the _Guardian_. He doesn't usually punish himself with the _Telegraph_ unless he needs to see how the other side is reacting to something MacLeod's done or said. "Didn't experience that till university. But they love it at work. Parliament doesn't get many festive occasions." He glances over and touches her bruise carefully. "This is turning a lovely shade of pea green."

"Your fingers are nice and cool," she says, sighing as she sucks on the sweet. "So you really don't have to go in again today?"

"No, I'm all yours once again. I've got some reading to do for a speech scheduled for later this month, but nothing else unless Corin rings." He smiles and runs his fingers through her hair.

"That's good," she says, ducking under the newspaper so she can rest her cheek against his chest. He looks down at her, smiling quietly to himself, and rests his chin on the top of her head as he flips through the paper.

"We're not in it today," he says.

"That's also good." She yawns. "I don't know why I'm tired."

"Probably because of the head trauma."

"Mm." She lets her injured wrist rest on his abdomen, and the touch is enough to make him suck in a quiet breath, closing his eyes against the sudden tightening in his groin. Thank God for the newspaper. "Let's order in a pizza tonight."

"Sounds nice."

"My treat. I feel a bit like a … like a freeloader or something."

He quirks an eyebrow and looks down at her. "Seriously, the toffee was all of two pounds."

She lifts up on one elbow. "I don't mean that – I mean all of this."

"You want me to charge you rent?"

"No," she replies, frustrated. "I don't know. I just don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you."

He drops the newspaper. "Sybil, seriously. You're having my baby … I think I can buy you a pizza or some sweets now and again."

"I just want to make sure we're on equal footing." She gets up slowly, bracing herself on the bedside table, and heads slowly out into the kitchen.

The dowager's warning about Sybil's money meanders through his brain, and he puts aside the paper and follows her into the living room. She's filling a glass of water at the kitchen tap. He crosses his arms over his chest and regards her. "We are on equal footing, aren't we?"

"Yes, yes, I just …" She sips. "Have I moved in with you?"

His brow furrows. "What?"

She gestures toward the bags in the corner of the living room; Edith brought two more the previous day, and it seems like now most of Sybil's clothing is in his flat. "All of my things are here now."

"You said Edith should bring some things."

"That looks like everything." She clutches her glass.

He scratches his face – he needs to shave. "Should I take all of it back? I thought – I thought this was what you wanted. I thought it was safer here, since there aren't any photographers so far."

"No, that's true. I just don't – what about when I overstay my welcome? What then?"

"I hadn't thought you would." He swallows. "You don't like being here?"

"No, no – I like being here very much." She smiles shyly at him. "You're wonderful, Tom. I just don't want us to be … _beholden_ to each other, I suppose."

He doesn't know what to say. That's what commitment is, isn't it? Being beholden to each other? He wonders again precisely what her ex-boyfriend did to her. "I want you to stay. I don't think you're beholden to me." He pauses, sitting on the arm of the sofa. "I should tell you something."

The fear that crosses her face unnerves him – whatever it was that Simon had done, she'd clearly been absolutely crushed by it. She sits down slowly in one of the dining chairs and draws her knees up to her chest.

"It's nothing bad, I promise. I just – I had tea with your grandmother on Wednesday afternoon."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "With Granny?"

"Yes."

"Tea with my granny? You do mean the dowager?"

"No, I stopped over in America after work for a few hours." Sybil rolls her eyes in exasperation at his words. "One of your gran's staff rang my office and asked me what time the car should pick me up. I didn't think I was allowed to say no."

She shrugs. "I don't think anyone says that to her on a regular basis."

"So we had tea."

Her mouth falls open slightly. "What did she say to you?"

"She wanted me to know … she wanted to know that I was committed to you. She's worried about you. She told me that – that you weren't disposable. That you were important."

She looks down, and he thinks he sees a blush creeping up on her cheeks. "Well."

He clears his throat. "And the reason I even said anything about it … she told me I wasn't to touch your money."

Sybil raises her head, her expression going a bit blank. "Did she?"

"Did something happen, Sybil? I mean – I know it's none of my business. I've got no idea how much money you have or even if you have any at all. But I told your grandmother that, and she seemed sceptical." He tilts his head. "She made it sound like someone had taken advantage of you before."

She shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about it. It's in the past."

"It worried me."

"Why?" Her eyes are glassy.

Because he loves her. "Because I don't like that someone's hurt you."

She swallows a bit, and the vulnerability in her gaze is simultaneously thrilling and troubling. "Simon took money from me."

It's what he feared, but it still makes his stomach turn. "What happened?"

"I – his family is rich enough, and he got a job in the City after graduation, but he was…" She pauses and shakes her head. "I found out later that he'd been gambling a lot – internet poker, I think, mostly. He'd gone through his own savings, and when he couldn't come up with his own money anymore, he started taking money from me, got my PIN somehow."

"Oh, Sybil."

Her expression shifts in a split second – the softness goes hard. "I've had more than enough pity for my stupidity, thank you very much."

"I didn't mean that. I mean – what a bastard. How could someone hurt you like that?"

She shudders. "I thought that he loved me. And I know that he was sick – it's an addiction. And I…" She sucks in a deep breath. "I found out, and I let him stay. He apologised, and he started going to a treatment group, one of those where you talk about your issues, and I thought things were better." She sighs. "And then six months later he left me. And I found out that he'd been taking small sums, just a little bit at a time, the entire time."

"How long ago?"

"Hm?"

"How long ago did things end for good with him?"

"Oh." She shifts in her chair. "A year ago last month." There's a long silence. "I have a lot of money, Tom."

"That doesn't matter. I've got plenty of my own."

"No, I think you should know. I'm sure Granny alluded to it. My grandfather set up trust funds for me and for Edith after he died – he didn't have any other grandchildren, and he knew that Mary would inherit the estate. It's a lot of money. It's mine, and I appreciate what Granddad did for me, but sometimes I wish that I'd earned it. I know that's a stupid thing to say when plenty of people don't have anything, but I feel … I don't know. I feel too lucky sometimes. Like everything's been handed to me, and I'm no more deserving of that than anyone else."

He nods slowly. "Did you get back the money that he took from you?"

She nods. "Matthew helped. Simon's family stepped in to avoid a legal fight. I was too embarrassed to keep it, so I gave it to Oxfam."

He stands, walks over to the table, and pulls her up into his arms, kissing the side of her head gently. "You're a good person. You're going to be a really good mother, Sybil."

She bursts into tears, hugging him tightly. "Thanks," she sniffs, letting him hold her for a long while.

* * *

><p>By the next morning, the entire world knows that she's going to be a mother, good or not.<p>

A columnist for one of the Saturday papers includes a small, almost discreet item in his weekly piece revealing that their "unconventional" relationship has endured because of their impending arrival. He knows that someone from inside St Thomas' has leaked the story. He'd like to wring the neck of the nurse who blabbed, but of course, the papers have been careful only to cite "close sources." Right.

By that afternoon, the web versions of all of the major papers have the story; the _Mail_ in particular goes all out, bringing in an obstetrician who analyses previous photos and determines the age of the foetus with alarming accuracy. The _Telegraph_ notes that the last British PM to become a grandparent while in office was Thatcher. ("Fabulous," Sybil groans.) The two of them have a speakerphone pow-wow with Matthew, who gives them the number of the lawyer who handles the PCC complaints for the royal family. ("It's not a big deal," Sybil says patiently. "Besides, I went to school with one of the princesses anyway. It's not like they're from another planet or something.")

And then he gets to call his mother, to break the news that she, like the prime minister, will also soon be a grandparent. It goes precisely as well as he expected it would. He decides to post her one of the images from the scan – maybe long-distance passive-aggression via post will soothe her fury.

Worst of all, though, just when she'd been ready to step outside again – bruise be damned – the leaked story about the baby manages to kill Sybil's confidence. She's worried, and he thinks probably rightly so, that she'll be accosted again in public. Neither of them is commenting on the story, and Lord Grantham's press office has made it clear that he does not speak about the private lives of his daughters, so at least the story is so far stuck in the "reportedly" stage. The biggest blessing so far is that there are still no paparazzi in the vicinity of his flat – he isn't sure if the press just haven't managed to figure out where he lives yet (he doubts this), or if they're simply holding back for fear of reprisal after Sybil's injury.

Even so, he's got plans for Saturday night – plans for the foreseeable future, really. It's clearer and clearer to him that Sybil's too tentative after her last miserable relationship to be really open with him, baby or no baby. So he's going to have to show her that he's a good guy, that she can trust him. Telling her that he loves her would send her running, he's pretty sure. So, he decides, he's simply going to have to show her instead.

Step number one: introducing her to his friends. He spends a good deal of the afternoon coaxing Sybil into agreeing to accompany him to a small party that evening. "You won't have to walk around on the street, and you won't be around anyone who will take your picture," he says, hands on hips.

She's sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, picking at the sleeves of her hoodie. "I might be sick, though. What if I get dizzy?" She shakes her head. "Or what if someone tries to touch my stomach or something?"

He cringes. "Do people do that?"

"Apparently people do that all the time," she says, eyes wide.

"That's brutal. If people try to do any of those things, I will tell them quite kindly to piss the fuck off."

She rolls her eyes, laughing a little. "Tom."

"Sybil."

She sighs heavily. "We won't be out for hours and hours."

"No."

"And if anything is awful you'll bring me straight back here."

"Promise."

She sighs. "I don't have to get too dressed up?"

"I'm wearing jeans and trainers, if that tells you anything."

She nods slowly. "Okay." He grins, and she gives him a slightly exasperated look. "It'll take me a while to get ready."

"We've got a couple hours, we don't need to leave until after six."

"Okay," she says softly, nodding to herself.

She showers, promising to be careful of her stitches, with the loo door open, so that he can hear her if she starts to get dizzy or feels like she's going to fall. He sprawls on his stomach on the bed, nominally reading a book, but really just watching her while she sits on the floor and dries her hair. When she's halfway through, she peers over her shoulder and asks, "Curly or straight?"

"Hm?"

"Should I wear my hair curly or straight?"

"Curly," he says, without even a moment's hesitation. She starts to turn on the hairdryer again, but he adds, "That's the very first thing I noticed about you."

"My hair?"

"Uh-huh. Like a lion's mane or something, all wild and everywhere."

"It gets in my face. I can't do anything with it."

He shrugs. "I like it," he says, smiling as she quirks an eyebrow at him and then goes back to her task.

He warms up a couple of slices of the leftover pizza from the night before while she tries in vain to cover up the bruise with makeup. "Oh, forget it," she says as she walks into the kitchen. "There's nothing to be done, it's just there."

"War wound. Wear it with pride," he says, handing her a plate. "Cab should be here in ten minutes."

The streets of London are relatively quiet, even for Bonfire Night, as the cab makes its way to Chelsea. "Dave's my flatmate from Leeds," he explains. "He works for a tech firm now. Embarrassingly smarter than me."

"Good to know. I'll save all of my big words for him, then."

He gasps in mock outrage as they pull up in front of a house only a block or so from the river. "He's got a roof terrace, we do this every year," he says. "You'll like them, I promise."

Not only does she like them, it turns out that she actually already knows a couple of his friends through mutual connections. He should have realised – as foreign as Sybil's life seems sometimes, they're really not that far removed from each other. "Tommy," Dave calls out, long and low, when he seems him coming across the living room. "A celebrity in our midst."

"Ah, get away," he says, slapping his friend on the back. "Dave, this is Sybil Crawley."

"Lovely to meet you," he says, blinking a bit too slowly – clearly the celebrations started a bit early for Dave. "Shame about everything. You look gorgeous."

Sybil looks up at him for guidance, and he just shakes his head indulgently at his friend. "You're a gentleman as always, you fecking fool."

Dave bows clumsily. "Anyway. Black stuff's in the fridge, most everyone else is already upstairs, explosions in twenty."

He grabs a Guinness for himself and a Coke for Sybil, but by the time he finds her again, she's already deep in conversation with the girlfriend of one of Dave's mates from school. He just passes the can to her and raises his eyebrows as he heads upstairs, finding a whole group of his university friends contemplating whether or not to light various things on fire. He chats a little, but mostly he's content to lean against the railing and watch the ridiculousness until the firework display from Battersea Park starts to light up the sky.

He remembers the first time he saw fireworks in England – when he'd first started at Leeds, Dave had tried a bit too hard to be sensitive to his background, and he'd actually pretended like they should go see a film on Bonfire Night instead. "Why?" he'd asked. "Don't you want to go see the show?" Dave had assumed that fireworks would be some sort of trigger. They weren't, though – the booming of fireworks and the booming of a pipe bomb were two very different things.

He doesn't know how long he stands slightly apart on the terrace, looking up at the sky, but eventually he registers fingertips dancing across his back. "Hi," Sybil says softly, sidling up next to him. "This is a great view."

He nods, and when he looks down, he can tell that she's shivering. "C'mere," he murmurs, pulling her close and folding her into his coat.

She jumps a bit when one of the biggest bursts crackles across the sky. "That was a good one," she exclaims.

He laughs a little, resting his chin on the top of her head. "It was," he agrees.


	11. Chapter 11

_Note: A big thanks to those of you who have been reviewing - it means a great deal to know that some of you are really enjoying this. And a huge thank you to Tumblr users singing-fireflies and d-franco, who made gorgeous images inspired by this story (each graphic can be seen on my fic Tumblr, thetwistedroots). Very exciting stuff!_

* * *

><p>He's heading back to his office after a quick lunch when he hears someone calling his name from behind him. "Tom! Tom Branson!"<p>

It's probably yet another reporter trying to get him to confirm Sybil's pregnancy. It's been two weeks since the story broke in the papers, and it seems like the press is starting to get frustrated with their silence. "I've got no comment," he shouts over his shoulder, picking up his pace a bit.

"No, no, wait, I'm not a reporter." He turns and is surprised to see a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, hurrying to catch up with him. "I wouldn't expect you to recognize me just by the voice. I'm Matthew Crawley."

He shakes Matthew's proffered hand and looks a bit sheepish. "Sorry, it's just that—"

"I know, you don't need to explain it to me," he says wryly. "Do you have a moment?"

"Uh, I suppose that'd be okay," he replies, checking his watch. "I've got a meeting at two."

"Won't take but a minute or two."

They stop in to a pub near Westminster; he wants a pint, but he knows he needs to be clear for the all-hands later. "I wanted to show you this," Matthew says, pulling out his phone. "I managed to track down the photographers who were there the day that Sybil was hurt."

He hands over the mobile, which is playing a muted and jumpy video. Tom can make out the silhouettes of several taller men, and then the crowd disperses enough that Sybil's dark hair is clearly visible as she struggles through the crowd. He feels his heart start to pick up as the cameras begin to flash, and when he sees her stumble and fall, he has to remind himself to keep breathing.

"That's…" He hands back the phone, unable to find the words to complete the thought. He sucks in a deep breath; she'd told him the truth about what had happened, but seeing it makes it all seem so much worse.

Matthew cringes. "Maybe I should have warned you. It isn't pretty."

"No, it's not," he says. He regards Matthew coolly. Sybil's cousin – or brother-in-law, sort of, he's not really sure exactly where Matthew falls in the family hierarchy these days – has been cordial and helpful on the telephone as they've hammered out the details of the PCC complaint case, but this interaction so far is making him a bit wary. The man is engaged to Lady Mary, after all. His motives can't be all pure. "Why do you want to help us?"

"What?" Matthew asks, clearly not anticipating the question.

Tom sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm just trying to make sense of some things. Your fiancée all but crucified me in front of Sybil and the rest of the family. So why do you want to help us?"

Matthew frowns. "Mary's a bit – well, she's a complicated woman."

He snorts. "No disagreement here."

"And I know you work for the opposition, so she probably seems doubly difficult. I get that." He shakes his head. "But I know how much she loves Sybil, and I know she thought she was doing the right thing for her sister at the moment."

"By humiliating both of us?" he asks. "Matthew, I don't know you very well, but I can't help but think—"

"I consider Sybil to be my sister," Matthew says, setting his mobile down on the table. "And I understand Mary's instinct to protect her, because I feel that too." He sighs. "I suppose the difference is that I've been an outsider in this family, even though I am the heir, so I know something of what it's like to be in your shoes."

"If you're the heir to an earldom, you're a far sight from my shoes," Tom sighs. "Listen. I don't mean to discount the work you've done on Sybil's behalf with this complaint. It's just that she's dealing with enough stress right now, and I want to make sure that this isn't going to turn into some scheme to keep the two of us apart or to take away her ability to make decisions of her own. She doesn't deserve that."

"I wouldn't do that to her," Matthew says, and he sounds sincere.

"Good. Good." Tom sits forward. "So we've got video. What do we do now?"

"We submit this with the other evidence for the complaint. We've got plenty without it to win, I think, but seeing what it's like to actually experience this is a powerful thing." He nods. "I'm not the person actually on the case, but the solicitor from Harbottle & Lewis is a friend from Oxford, so I'm helping out where I'm able."

"I appreciate that," Tom replies. "We both do. I don't pretend to speak for her, but I know she's grateful."

Matthew clears his throat. "I just wish there were some way that we could convince her to speak to her parents again. Edith told me she'd spoken with her, but I—"

So that's what he wants. Tom holds up a hand. "That has to be her decision. I'm not going to try to influence it." He shakes his head and stands. "I think we're done here."

"It's an observation, Tom, it wasn't a request. There isn't payment required for this."

He nods. "Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch." He can hear Matthew protesting as he heads out of the pub, but he keeps his head down and moves forward.

It scares him a little – the way that the Crawleys seem more than happy to use him as a means of getting to Sybil, as if he can be swayed and bought and sold as easily as a possession. It isn't fair, he thinks, that they apparently believe that he can be convinced to influence Sybil's decision-making for them. She's a person. She deserves to be able to see who she wants to see and ignore anyone else. He wouldn't try to make her do something she absolutely didn't want to do. Or at least, he very strongly hopes that he wouldn't.

He flips up the collar of his coat as he strides quickly back to his office – he'll worry about the Crawleys later. For now, it's time to get back to work, and if work involves knocking them off their privileged political pedestal, all the better for it.

* * *

><p>It's been a quiet weekend of going to the cinema and doing the weekly shop and sleeping late, and Tom has thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. Not a camera in sight, not an argument or a conflict in view. He stretches out on the couch and wiggles his fingers and toes. Paradise.<p>

Sybil, though, is moving about the flat irritably. He knows she's not angry with him, and he can't figure out what in the world is wrong with her. He hates that he immediately chalks it up to the baby, but that's the reality of the situation – her waistline is starting to expand, and she's getting more and more uncomfortable. He is learning things he never even dreamed of … who knew that pregnant women were so itchy all the time? But she's barely sick anymore, and that alone has made everything quite a bit easier.

He's staring rather mindlessly at the telly when she appears at the arm of the sofa. "I'm going to bed," she says, hands bunched up in the sleeves of her jumper.

"Are you okay?" he asks, squinting at her a bit. "You seem uneasy."

"I'm fine," she says shortly, heading into the bedroom before he can reply and shutting the door.

His brow furrows as he turns back to the television, his mind scanning over the events of the past few days. He told her that he saw Matthew and that the PCC complaint evidence was building, but not that he'd talked about trying to get Sybil to contact the family – that was good. They'd gone to see _Contagion_, which had made him never want to take public transport again, but hadn't seemed to upset her greatly (she does work for UNICEF, after all, she knows about epidemics and death) – that was okay. He'd cooked her dinner on Friday – that had been excellent.

He hoists himself off the couch with a yawn and heads to the loo, washing his face and readying himself for bed. The bedside lamp is still switched on when he quietly enters the room, but Sybil is curled up on her side of the bed – _her side_, his brain says with glee – with her eyes shut firmly. He frowns, but pulls his T-shirt over his head and slides in beside her. He thinks about rolling nearer to her and stroking her back to try to soothe her, but he decides against it – if she's feeling poorly that's probably the last thing she would want. Instead, he just rolls to his stomach and reaches over to switch off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

He's not sure what time it is when he hears the bedroom door open and shut; he's half sleeping and half waking, and it takes him a good few moments to register that Sybil's not beside him in bed anymore. She's probably being sick, he thinks with a sigh, just when he thought that part of things might be over. He rolls on to his back and rubs at his eyes and face, trying to decide whether or not he should get up and go to her.

Before he can make any decisions, though, she appears in shadow in the doorway, palms pressed against the doorframe. "Tom?"

"Is everything all right?" He throws back the duvet and sits up, swinging his legs over so that the soles of his feet brush the floor. When he switches on the lamp, the look on her face is so uncertain and so worried that he starts to panic a little. "Sybil, what's—"

"Will you have sex with me?" she blurts.

Not what he expected. His mouth drops open. "What?"

"Oh, I just – forget it, forget it," she says, hugging her arms about her torso and starting to back into the living room.

"Wait a second," he says, holding up a hand. His heart is beating faster and faster – she wants him? Just like that, out of nowhere? "Come here?" She does so, slowly and reluctantly. "You want to have sex?"

She's clearly mortified, and her cheeks are blooming bright red. "I'm just – I'm really uncomfortable, and these stupid hormones have me all … worked up, and I can't manage to … and I can't sleep, and I'm just…" She covers her face with her hands. "God. You can't just ask someone if they'll have sex with you, can you? I'm so ridiculous."

"It's not like I'm just some bloke off the street."

"No, not like last time, anyway." She winces. "God, I didn't mean that."

He raises his eyebrows – he's starting to realise that she's never going forgive herself for their night together. "I know. But it's different now, isn't it?" She shrugs noncommittally. "But you want to?"

"Yes." She wrinkles up her nose. "I think I'm going to go crazy otherwise."

"Okay." He rubs his palms against his knees. "Well, then. Let's have sex."

She groans and sits down next to him. "This feels like a business transaction."

"Are you planning on paying me?"

"_Tom_." She shifts around beside him, stares down at her fingers. "What if we shouldn't? I mean, what if it complicates things? You said yourself you weren't sure if we should…" She gestures vaguely.

He shrugs. "I don't know. Things are pretty complicated as is. We sleep in the same bed anyway. Everybody else probably thinks we're already having sex. And, you know, we have done." Oh, lord – now he's probably sounding overly eager. "I just mean that if you think it will make you feel better, I don't think it will ruin anything."

She stares straight ahead. "I wasn't four months pregnant last time."

"No." He looks at her. "Are you worried I don't – that I wouldn't like you like this?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She sighs. "How's that, hm? I want to have sex because I'm pregnant and my body is all … _strange_, but I don't want to have sex because I look like I'm pregnant."

"It's not a bad thing." It really isn't. Beneath all of the stress of the situation, his job and her family, their uncertain relationship and the press, there's something about making Sybil pregnant that really turns him on. He can't explain it, but he feels like a man, an actual, honest-to-God man. He did that – he was able to do that. He wishes she'd been able to decide that she wanted it – that they'd been able to decide together – that they'd been in love and together and ready. But even though it wasn't like that – he'd fathered a child, and that thought made his blood buzz.

"It's not sexy. I don't really even look _pregnant_ pregnant, I just look all bloated and swollen."

He shakes his head. "You don't." He cups her elbow with his palm and urges her up. "Come over here."

"Tom," she says, her voice reluctant.

"Ah, come now. You can't ask a man for sex and then take it back, that's really unfair." She snorts and lets him pull her astride his lap, rising up on her knees. He draws her closer and kisses her with languid lips, first soft and then harder, deeper, tongues tangling. She makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat.

His body is responding already. But he doesn't just want to be a convenient cock – he wants to know that there are more than hormones at work in this. "Do you want me?" he murmurs as they part. "Not just somebody, but me?"

She lets her eyes drop shut and wriggles even closer, so that she's pressed against his bare chest. "Yes." She initiates the kiss this time. He's panting when she pulls back. "Do you want me?"

"Yes," he whispers. "I've wanted you since that first night, I have, so much."

She watches his face as he reaches down and pulls the T-shirt she's been sleeping in over her head, revealing her body to him completely for the first time in weeks. "Don't—" she starts, but he shakes his head, tracing his fingers over her breasts, bigger than before, nipples darker than he remembers. She breathes in sharply, pressing her cheek to his and grasping his shoulders as his touch becomes more insistent. And then there's the little swell of her tummy, just enough that it makes it all seem real, that his child really does sleep beneath her skin.

She reaches over and fumbles with the lamp, and he takes the opportunity to mouth the soft skin of her neck, smiling a little as her fingers falter before finally switching off the light.

"How do you want to…?" he asks, leaning back on his elbows so that she's perched above him, hands on his chest. "I mean, I don't know if there's anything we should…"

"I don't think so," she says breathlessly. She grinds against him, and his eyes slip shut as he groans. "Oh, Tom…" She leans forward and kisses him hard, almost desperately, and he reaches up to tangle one hand in her hair. "Please," she groans against his mouth.

It's quick and fumbling and exhilarating, all at the same time. He wants to take his time, to show her that he really does want her, that he cares for her, but she's impatient and almost frantic. And then he's over her and sliding inside of her, and she's moaning, digging her heels into the mattress and arching her back to try to bring him closer and closer. As she rises, her belly is suddenly firm against his, and it makes him nervous. He starts to pull back a bit, even as she pleads with him to move faster, harder – "you won't hurt me, you won't hurt the baby" – her fingers in his hair, gripping his shoulders, sliding down his back.

Before long, he feels himself starting to unravel and rests his forehead against hers, letting his nose rub softly on her cheek, letting the sounds she makes wash over him. She keens and clutches him tightly as she comes, and he can't hold back any longer, squeezing his eyes shut and crying out, his open mouth against her cheek.

He swallows hard as he fights to keep himself from collapsing on her – he believes her when she says that sex won't hurt the baby, but he can't imagine that crushing her under the weight of his fatigued body would be a good idea. She's fairly gulping for air beneath him, the back of one hand resting on her forehead. Her eyes widen as he pulls away, rolling onto his back next to her.

The sheer physicality of the encounter exhausts him, but he's worried – he's worried that now sex with her will become yet another itch to scratch and nothing more. It can't be that – he can't let it be just that. His heart swells, and he props himself up on an elbow, looming over her, pressing his mouth to her pulse points, the curve of her breast, the rise of her throat. Their eyes meet as his lips ghost over her belly, one hand coming up to cup the underside of the small swell.

He can't decipher the look that crosses her face. She reaches down and strokes his hair softly. "Thank you," she whispers.

He presses his cheek to her abdomen. "I want you to be happy," he says, voice raspy. "I want you to feel good. I want…" He shuts his eyes tightly and burrows against her skin.

She makes a soft noise, fingers in his hair, and exhales.


	12. Chapter 12

He hurries inside the pub, urged on by the chill in the late November air, rubbing his hands together briskly. It's dark and close inside, just the way he likes a pub to be – none of the glossy bars and lounges that dot the city for him. He wants a pub to smell a little stale and look a little shabby, like a place where you can go and put your feet up on the furniture. Not that he would do, but anyway.

Dave waves him over from a small table in the back corner, away from most of the other patrons. He nods and weaves through the small crowd waiting to be served, past the dartboard and the toilets, offering Dave a toothless grin.

"Twice in a month," Dave says, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think I saw you this much when we were up at Leeds."

Tom rolls his eyes and sits down heavily, accepting the pint that Dave slides across the table toward him. "Nice to see you, too, David."

"You look a right wreck."

He coughs a little and reaches for the glass, sipping slowly. "Thanks a lot."

"Been a long day?"

"Been a long week. Been a long couple of months, if I'm honest." He leans back in his chair and surveys his fellow patrons. No one _looks_ like a journalist. He tries to imagine worrying about such a thing six months ago and fails.

"Tom?"

His eyes snap back to Dave, who is looking at him with something very much like genuine concern. "Hm?"

"Nothing. You just seemed like you went away there for a minute."

He shakes his head. "Just thinking." He shifts a little in his chair. "Actually – and I know you're going to take the piss over this, so just save it for later – actually I wondered if I could ask you for some advice."

Dave's eyes widen – the man has always liked a good gossip more than he really should. "Tell Uncle Davy everything, Thomas."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to be serious about anything—"

The gleeful expression melts into something more troubled. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." He takes a long drink, letting the smooth liquid slide down his throat.

"I mean it. The way you look right now, I'd believe it if you said you'd killed someone."

"I haven't killed anyone." He shakes his head. "I just need – things are complicated right now."

Dave leans back and regards him. "I read the newspapers. So it's really true about the baby, then?" He pauses a moment before nodding quickly, curtly. Dave lets out a low whistle. "Things certainly are complicated, then, aren't they?"

"The thing is," he begins, frowning, "the thing is that I don't exactly know where I stand with her right now."

"I find that hard to believe after seeing the two of you together at my flat," Dave says. "You looked disgustingly loved up."

His jaw tightens – they had seemed that way. They _do_ seem that way – at times he wonders if they _are_ that way. He's just getting so frustrated with the not-knowing of it all. "I need to know that if I tell you some things, you won't tell anyone. And I mean anyone, Dave."

"On my honour," he says. "You're making me more than a little nervous."

He sighs and reaches for his glass, draining the remainder. "Sybil and I aren't exactly in a relationship."

Dave raises an eyebrow, but he merely offers, "Okay."

"We had a one-night stand after a party in August." He picks at the corner of a beer mat. "I didn't know she was the PM's daughter, and I didn't see her again until the night she told me she was pregnant."

"But you're sure it's yours?"

He nods slowly. "Yes."

"And she's living in your flat now, and she's having your baby, but you're not in a relationship." He chews his lip thoughtfully.

"She doesn't want her parents to know that she fell pregnant the way she did," Tom explains.

"So you're pretending to be her boyfriend so that the prime minister won't think his daughter's a bit ... promiscuous?"

He glares a bit at that characterization of Sybil. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore," he replies, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"You looked really happy together on Bonfire Night."

"I think we are happy most of the time."

Dave narrows his eyes. "Excuse my French, Tommy, but are you fucking her?"

"Jesus, Dave," he groans. "This was a bad idea."

"It's a serious question, though. I mean, if you're not sure what's going on, but you're shagging the girl anyway, and she's pregnant..." Dave shrugs.

He hesitates. "Only once since August. Sunday night."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? She wouldn't want to shag you if she didn't like you at all. Well, probably not, anyway." Dave steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. "But it sounds to me like you want to be more than just pals who messed about and are now anticipating a blessed event."

"You're a ridiculous human being, Dave."

"Tell me I'm wrong about that, hm?"

He gives him a look. "You're not wrong, okay? I think I'm in love with her."

"And yet you sound like someone's drowned your dog." Dave shakes his head, _tsk_-ing disapprovingly. "So she's having your baby and you're in love with her. How is that a bad thing?"

"Because I have no idea what she thinks about any of it," he says, coughing a bit. "I don't think she hates me or anything, and sometimes I think she really likes me, but sometimes it seems like she's just – I don't know, like she's just sort of _existing_ in my flat because she doesn't know what else to do."

"She's a lot younger, isn't she?"

He shrugs. "She's twenty-three. Not that much younger."

"So just out of uni last year?"

"I think that's right." He reaches into his pocket for a tissue, blows his nose quickly.

"Well, for Christ's sake, can you imagine what it would have been like if you'd had a kid the first year you worked for MacLeod?" He and Dave had lived together in a flat in Brixton after graduation, and they'd spent as much time that first year trying to maintain their university drinking schedule as they did launching their careers. Plenty of late nights, plenty of booze, plenty of women. And now Sybil's at the same point, and maybe she was trying to recreate something like that too, on that night in August. But instead she found herself pregnant and yoked to a man she barely knows.

He exhales heavily. "I think – the last relationship she was in didn't end well, apparently. Sounds like the guy was a real dickhead. Took advantage of her, humiliated her." He shakes his head. "It makes sense that maybe she doesn't trust me."

"Look, Tom," Dave says, setting his glass down firmly on the table. "I know you're not a dickhead. You know you're not a dickhead. She'll figure it out eventually." He shrugs. "Just don't smother her, you know? Let her figure it out on her own."

"I'm trying to do that, it's just – she's pregnant with my baby. It's getting harder and harder not to tell her how I feel."

"Well, fine, tell her, if that's what you want." Dave downs the rest of his beer. "But don't say I didn't warn you, not if she runs away in terror and fright from the entire situation."

He lets his head fall into his hands. "I don't want that."

"Then be patient." Dave snickers a little. "Can you believe those words just came out of my mouth?"

Tom smiles despite himself. "No, honestly, not really."

* * *

><p>The sneezing and coughing he's been doing for a few days turn into a full-on illness by the weekend. In the wee hours of Saturday morning, he's coughing so hard that he's afraid he'll disrupt Sybil's sleep, so he drags his pillow and a blanket out to the living room and crashes on the couch.<p>

When he wakes hours later, it's to the cool touch of Sybil's fingers on his forehead. His vision is a little blurry. She frowns. "You're burning up," she observes, stroking his cheek.

"Feel like shite," he confirms gruffly, pulling the blankets up under his chin. It's freezing in the room, or at least it feels that way. "You might catch it, you should go somewhere."

"And leave you all by yourself?" She quirks an eyebrow. "Not likely."

"You'll catch it."

"I got my flu jab a month ago. I'll be fine," she assures him, smoothing down his damp hair. "Do you know if you have a thermometer?"

"Don't think so." He swallows a bit experimentally and nearly groans at the pain in his throat. "Ugh."

"Okay," she says, standing. He realises she has her coat on and her handbag on her shoulder. "I'm going to pop down to the shop and pick up a few things. Do you want anything?"

He just grunts in response, pulling the blankets up and over his head, and he thinks he hears her chuckling as she heads out the door.

He's fallen asleep again by the time she returns, and she rouses him with a gentle touch. "Here, can you sit up a bit?" She helps prop him up against the pillows and hands him a couple of capsules and a glass of water. "I rang the NHS direct line thingy, but they said not to have you go in anywhere unless your fever is really high." She unwraps the thermometer she's bought and presses it to his ear. "You're at 38.5."

"That's not really high."

"No, not good, but not that bad," she replies, easing him back down. "Are you hungry?" He shakes his head. "I bought some biscuits and things. And you should really keep drinking water."

"Just want to sleep," he says, rolling on to his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. The last thing he registers before he falls asleep again is her hand rubbing soft, rhythmic circles on his back.

* * *

><p>It's dark out when his eyes blink open again. The room is dimly lit – only one of the lamps is switched on – and a soft blue glow comes from the telly. Sybil's sitting in the armchair closest to the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, eating popcorn and watching <em>X Factor<em>.

"I cannot believe you can sit through this," he mutters, wrinkling his nose as he shifts. He feels truly disgusting.

She smiles. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," he says. "And this is not helping. Is that Hanson she's singing?"

Sybil snorts. "I think it is. Anyway, I warmed up some of the soup Edith brought over yesterday for dinner – do you want some?" Sybil had moped about all evening on Thursday – he hadn't realised why until Friday afternoon, when Edith had stopped by with a carrier bag full of leftovers from the family's Thanksgiving celebration. It was apparently one American tradition that Sybil's mother was not prepared to abandon.

He shakes his head. "I think I just want a bath and a big glass of water."

"I think we can make that happen."

Sitting up takes all of his energy. He scrubs at his face, covered in a day's growth of beard. He glances back at the television, now playing a series of Christmas adverts, full of pies and pine trees and wrapped gifts. He starts to wonder what he's going to get her for Christmas – what can he get that will demonstrate his feelings but not frighten her away?

"Hey, Tom?"

He looks over, eyes bleary – her face holds something like expectation. "Hm?"

She hesitates. "I think I felt the baby move."

His eyes widen. "When?"

"A little while ago."

"Really?"

She smiles quietly. "I think so."

"Like, kicking, that kind of feeling?"

"No, more like – I don't know. A weird sort of fluttery kind of feeling."

"That's..." He swallows. "That's really good, right?"

"Yeah, I think it is," she laughs, setting aside the bowl of popcorn and standing. "Come on, sicky, let's get you in the bath."

"What lovely bedside manner you have, Nurse Crawley," he groans as she grasps his hands and helps him off the couch.

"Oh, shut up," she admonishes playfully.

She draws him a hot bath and perches on the closed toilet lid as he soaks, lamenting the fact that she's not allowed a hot bath anymore and chattering away. He leans his head back against the edge of the tub, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles. Maybe she can't say that she loves him yet, or even that she really likes him – but surely she wouldn't be here right now if she didn't care for him even a little bit, he reasons. He catches her eye, and she smiles at him, and that's as good a medicine as anything else, really.


	13. Chapter 13

_Note: Thanks so much for the feedback on the last few chapters - please let me know if you're enjoying the story!_

* * *

><p>Rain begins to spatter lightly against the windscreen of the car as they approach Nottingham on the M1. Sybil yawns in the passenger seat. Richard Bacon's voice is enthusiastic as it filters out of the radio speakers. And Tom Branson clutches the steering wheel with tense fists, willing himself to relax, trying very hard to feel like he's not driving himself into the very eye of a hurricane.<p>

Here's how all of this happened.

* * *

><p>On a very normal Tuesday in early December, he was arguing with a whole meeting room full of speechwriters about their approach to a major statement about Britain's role in the EU, with John going full tilt as per usual, when one of the administrative assistants ducked his head through the door and passed a folded note with BRANSON scrawled on it down the row of chairs. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible while unfolding the paper, but when he saw "Call Sybil Crawley back ASAP at work number" scribbled on the yellow page, he took the opportunity to slip out of the wholly unproductive conversation and meander back to his desk.<p>

Dialling Sybil's extension still took some work on his part – he'd never been good with complicated telephone issues. But this time he got it right, and she answered on the third ring with a businesslike "Crawley."

"Branson," he replied, leaning his elbows on his desk blotter and cradling the receiver against his shoulder.

She laughed a little. "Wow, that was really fast. I told the assistant to say it wasn't an emergency."

"He didn't say it was. But you saved me from a truly terrible meeting, I should be thanking you." He unclasped his watch and held it up in front of his face – just after two. "So everything's good?"

"Well," she began a bit hesitantly, "I think so. My mother just rang me."

His eyebrows shot up, until he reminded himself that he was in public and needed to control his overly expressive face a bit more carefully. "What did she want?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"She just – she surprised me, she never rings my phone at work, so I didn't know it was her when I answered." He'd known that she'd been avoiding her mother's calls for weeks, and it made him a little bit anxious. It was clear to him that the Crawley family was close, this situation excepted. He worried that she was cutting herself off from them for his sake and only his sake, and he didn't want to be that wedge. Didn't a pregnant woman want to talk to her mother about things, if she were lucky enough to have a mother to speak to? "Tom?"

He'd been spacing out again. "Sorry – distracted by something here. What did she say?"

"She invited us to the big house for Christmas," Sybil said quickly, the words coming in a rush. "We don't have to go."

He frowned. "Do you want to go?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Her voice was soft. "But she wants to know this afternoon, because they're making plans for meals and things and they need a number."

"Sounds like they're planning a wedding or something." He winced as soon as he'd said it, her grandmother's stern command to think about marriage skating through his brain.

"Christmas is something of a production on the estate," she explained. "It's usually all of us, plus Granny and Matthew of course, and usually Aunt Rosamund and Uncle Duke."

"Your uncle is a duke? Is anyone in your family just a bricklayer or something?"

"Well, you're just a speechwriter," she joked, earning a snort from him in return. "He's not a duke, he owns a mobile phone company. His name is Marmaduke, but Mama laughs every time anyone says it because of a comic strip in America, so we've all called him just Uncle Duke since forever." She sighed. "We really don't have to go, Tom. I won't be upset."

Yes, she will be, he thought, whether she realised it then or not. "Have you ever spent a Christmas away from your family?"

There was a pause. "No."

"And you'll want to take the baby to Christmas with your family after it's born, won't you?" He imagined holding up a small child in front of a pile of presents, each one unwrapped and presented to him or her with a series of approving noises from aunts and uncles and grandparents. He imagined carrying a baby over to a Christmas tree, all sparkling with lights and tinsel and ornaments, and watching the child's eyes go round with wonder at the sight of it all.

"Yes, I think I probably will," she admitted.

"I'll be fine, Sybil. I think maybe we should go. I think maybe it would be a good idea to try to mend some fences. Maybe." He paused. "But if you don't want to go, if you don't feel up to it, I'll drag a tree into the flat and laugh at the stupid jokes in the crackers with you."

She made a soft noise at that. "You don't want to go to Belfast?"

"I never really want to go to Belfast," he replied, a bit more tightly than he'd intended. "I don't usually go for Christmas anyway. Mam and Auntie Reen have their own traditions, they don't miss me much."

"You can say that all you like, but I bet you're wrong." The silence was a bit longer. "Are you sure you wouldn't mind if we went? I mean, I don't want to just drag you up there so they can insult you again. That's not fair to you. And I don't want to go without you, either."

That made his heart flip-flop about a bit in his chest. "I have a feeling your sister's heard plenty about the things she said at that dinner," he offered. "I have a thick skin, Sybil. Well, at least metaphorically, I do."

She groaned a little. "Burn unit jokes?"

"Only the best for you, darling." He smiled against the phone.

"Well, Christ. Okay, I suppose we should do, then. It's going to have to happen eventually."

"Let's not talk about it like we're being marched to the guillotine," he advised. "Why expect the worst?"

She laughed a little. "You have met these people, haven't you?"

* * *

><p>They went back and forth about whether or not they would take the train or drive up to Yorkshire, until he convinced her that he really didn't mind springing for a hired car and that he loved to drive. "And besides, I've made the drive between Leeds and London loads of times."<p>

"I know, it's just the extra expense," she said, sitting in the living room, folding a basket of her clean laundry. "And I don't mind taking the train, it's not bad at all. I've done _that_ loads of times."

He shrugged. "It's not that much money. We can split it if you're really bothered by me paying for it."

"That can be my Christmas gift from you," she suggested.

He snorted. "Not bloody likely. I've already got your Christmas present."

This was a lie. He was completely flummoxed about what he should get her. Each gift he'd thought of seemed too fraught with meaning, too pedestrian, or too extravagant. More than once he'd found himself standing in a shop, staring at some beautiful trinket, and then changing his mind and walking back out, frustrated that he couldn't find a thing that said what he wanted it to – I do care about you, so much, but I don't want to frighten you away or trap you in a life you don't want. Not many greeting cards seemed to convey that particular sentiment.

Her eyes got huge, and she looked terrified. "Can I ask you something?" she murmured urgently.

"Er, yes, of course. Are you all right?"

"Don't be offended."

He frowned. "Okay..."

"I really, really hope you haven't bought me an engagement ring."

"What?"

"You haven't, have you?" She clutched a folded T-shirt to her chest.

"No. Why would I have done that?"

"I don't know. I just – I know that some people think that's what you're supposed to do when you're having a baby – I know Papa and Mama probably want that – but I just don't think that we..." She lets her voice trail off, biting at her lower lip.

"I wasn't going to ask you to marry me." He shakes his head. "That makes me sound like a giant prick, doesn't it? 'Please, bear my child, but for God's sake, don't expect me to make an honest woman of you.'"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't sound like that." She sighed. "I don't want to get married. I'm not sure I ever want to get married."

"Okay, noted."

She dropped her head in her hands. "Oh, hell, I shouldn't even have said anything."

His heart started beating faster and faster. "I mean, Christ, Sybil, it's not as if I don't—"

She stood up quickly, gathering up the folded clothes and the basket. "Forget it. Let's forget we said anything about it."

* * *

><p>Two days before they were scheduled to leave, Sybil had an appointment for a check-up and invited him to come along. "It's a routine scan," she explained. "They want most women to come in about this time to have things looked over."<p>

He clutched her hand tightly as they headed into the Portland. She'd gone over a long list of reasons why she was going with a private hospital rather than the NHS in the cab on the way over, and he had a feeling she was trying to justify her choice to herself as much as to him – he didn't care. They could afford it, and she should have what she thought would be right, he'd explained, which had sent her into thoughtful silence.

As they made their way inside, he looked around warily for camera lenses – they'd won an initial victory in their PCC case, but Matthew had cautioned that there were plenty of loopholes that could still be exploited by photographers and editors looking for a big payday.

"You're supposed to switch off your mobile," she murmured as she rooted about in her handbag to try to find her phone. He realised that he didn't switch his off when he'd been with her after the accident, and he hoped that he hadn't made some poor sod's ventilator give out.

They were ushered into an exam room, where he sat on a moulded plastic chair in the corner while Sybil perched on an exam table. Her feet swung back and forth gently as a nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her bicep and made it squeeze tight. Measuring, asking questions, offering advice – and then before he knew it, he was sitting beside her, and they were watching their baby on a fuzzy grey screen once more, only this time Sybil laughed a little each time the wee thing flipped and kicked.

"Everything looks perfectly on target. Do you want to know the baby's sex?" the sonographer asked, examining the ultrasound image carefully as she passed the wand over Sybil's abdomen.

He didn't know what to say to that, so he merely nodded at Sybil's hesitant "yes."

The technician made some quiet sounds as she searched the image. "Ah, yes, there we are." She turned to them and offered a small smile. "It's a little boy. Congratulations."

A son. A _son_. He shook his head a little and looked down at Sybil, who was still watching the image with rapt attention. He wondered for a moment if this is what Danny Branson felt like when he'd emerged, male, from his mother's womb. A baby boy – a little being who might look like you and might sound like you and might _be _like you – or might not be any of those at all. A little creature that you were supposed to teach to be a _man_, whatever that meant. Danny Branson hadn't taught him anything at all, save that violent political demonstrations weren't really a brilliant idea. He'd become a man all on his own. What lessons should he be passing down, when he couldn't recall ever being given any himself?

The machine was soon switched off, and they were sent on their merry way with a new set of pictures in hand. "I think my mother will want one of these," Sybil said in the cab on the way home. "Her grandchild. Her grandson. Good lord." Indeed.

* * *

><p>He got the idea for her gift that evening while she was sitting at the table writing a report for a training session scheduled ahead of the trip to Africa she was going to miss. She'd decided that she'd stop working six weeks before the baby was born, and she'd commented that she didn't think they would have cleared her to go whether she felt able or not. He'd watched her work for nearly an hour, chewing absentmindedly on the end of her pencil as she went over the required information. Postponement seemed to be the key word – take your dreams, tie them up neatly in a package with a bow, and quietly shelve them, not forever, but for now.<p>

There was a bit of research involved, but it turned out that the most difficult part of actually procuring the present was getting out of the flat unnoticed. They were leaving for Yorkshire in a matter of hours, really, and there were a thousand small tasks to do around home before they could leave. He'd cleaned, laundered, arranged, and packed, and he was left with precious little time for the errand.

Finally, the afternoon before they were going to leave, Sybil had a small breakdown as she realised that none of her dresses fit properly anymore, and she'd have nothing to wear for Christmas dinner. (Apparently they "dressed" for the occasion – "Granny likes tradition" – and she'd gone through his entire wardrobe before settling on a few items of clothing that would pass muster for the event.)

"I have to go get something else," she said, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed.

"Okay," he replied, folding a shirt carefully and setting it in his suitcase.

She nodded, standing again. "I won't be that long."

"Oh, don't worry," he said. "I've got a few last-minute things to do, too. We could just meet back here for dinner later on."

She squinted at him a bit suspiciously. "Okay."

"I'll bring something back."

She nodded and headed out, calling her goodbye back over her shoulder.

The shop was almost closing, but he managed to get in just before they locked the door. The distracted shop assistant handed over a heavy box with a nod, the register beeping wearily as Tom's card was approved. Fitting it into the boot of the hired car with their luggage was a feat in and of itself the next morning, but it was tucked away safe and sound by the time they headed north on the M1.

* * *

><p>Sybil yawns again and rubs at her belly as the rain begins to fall more regularly. "Can we make a stop? I need to pee again."<p>

He's feeling impatient to just get there already – if he's going to be metaphorically bludgeoned again by her family, he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. "Are you sure? We just stopped an hour ago."

"Your son is pressing on my bladder," she says firmly, and that shuts him up entirely.

Finding a space in the car park at the services is a little maddening, but just when he's almost ready to drop her off at the door and just circle until she comes back out, he snags a spot close to the entrance. Sybil's up and out of the car, hurrying toward the toilets, as soon as he shuts off the engine. He follows her in, shivering a little in the cold, spattering rain.

He's in line to get a coffee when she emerges, joining him in the queue. "Better?" he asks.

"Much," she confirms, yawning again. "Lord. I'm going to fall asleep at the table tonight."

"Best not do that," he says. "Why don't you just sleep in the car the rest of the way up?"

She shakes her head, leaning against his arm. "I wouldn't be very good company asleep."

He pulls her close to his side as they shuffle forward. "I'll be fine. Promise."

When the barista hands over his coffee, Sybil tugs on the sleeve of his coat. "One sip? Please?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Naughty." But he hands over the cup and watches as she swallows down a single gulp, her eyes closing in pleasure.

"God, I miss that."

"No more. Here, you can sleep, but I need the caffeine."

As they walk back to the car, he notices a small group of people staring at them, sees a single mobile raised, surely taking a snap. "Head down," he advises, turning his own face away from the sparse crowd.

"Oh, hell," Sybil mutters, hurrying with him toward the car and shielding her face with her hand as they drive away. "What are we going to do when we're trying to corral a screaming toddler and people start taking pictures?"

"Wait for the cover stories about what horrible parents we are, I suppose," he says gruffly, steering the car back on to the motorway.

She just sighs at that and squeezes his free hand. "We're not going to be horrible parents. We're probably not going to win any awards, but surely we won't fuck him up too badly."

He snorts. "Let's hope not." He turns on the wipers again, trying to clear the windscreen. "At the very least, I can promise you never to build a bomb in the kitchen."

"Fair enough. I promise never to run for political office." She fidgets and presses a hand against the growing swell of her tummy. "And now he's restless. One sip of caffeine and the kid's going insane." She presses his palm to the same spot and waits. "Still nothing?"

"Nope, not yet," he says. "The book you brought home from work said it's still probably too early for that."

She nods, leaning back in her seat. "Now I'm wide awake."

He glances over at her. "Tell me about Downton again. The place has how many bedrooms?"

"At least fifty. Mama found a new one last year when she was looking for one of the dogs."

"But I assume I'll be sleeping in a tent on the lawn anyway?"

"Probably." She smiles softly. "I'll bring you a blanket if you get too cold."

"Very hospitable."

"I do try."


	14. Chapter 14

Their room at the Abbey is on the second floor, not entirely set apart from the rest of the bedrooms, but certainly tucked away on its own. He picks up a suitcase and starts up the stairway, climbing up so that the cavernous main hall is out of sight – he can't quite believe this house, really, he can't – and continuing up, up, past the doors that line the hallway on the first storey.

He was honestly a little surprised that a flock of servants hadn't come to relieve them of their coats and bags the second they arrived in the house, even though Sybil had told him that only a few people lived and worked on the estate now – a couple of housecleaners, several gardeners, and an estate manager and his assistant – and those mostly to help with the weeks when the house was open to the public. No butlers, housemaids, or kitchen staff like in the old days. Lord Grantham had offered to help with the suitcases, but Tom had waved him off; this, at least, gave him a definitive task for a small while.

When he arrives at their room, Sybil's sitting inside, perching on the edge of the bed, still clearly a bit on edge after the initial contact with her parents. It had gone well, he'd thought – warm embraces and cordial greetings – but she'd built things up so much in her mind that it was clear she needed some time to recover. She picks at the edge of the duvet.

"One more to go," he says, regarding her from the doorway. He nudges the suitcase further into the room with his foot. "I can't believe that this house has fifty bedrooms and no elevator."

She smiles faintly. "Mama apologised to me for the stairs already. It's just that the rooms up here have been modernised more than the ones downstairs. Those don't have en-suites, and she said that she thought we'd be more comfortable if we did—"

He holds up a hand. "It was an observation, not a complaint. I'm still too in awe of this place to complain about it."

"I can imagine," she replies, shifting off the bed carefully and padding over to her suitcase. "I can start unpacking things."

He nods and heads back downstairs, where a suitcase and the big wrapped box that contains her gift are sitting at the foot of the stairs. He squints down at the box, frowning, trying to decide if it's feasible to lug the thing upstairs when she'll just find it in their room anyway. Looking up, he sees boxes and parcels all balanced underneath the massive tree in the hall. He pushes the box back into a corner beside the tree, figuring that he can move it later, maybe give it to her privately in one of the rooms downstairs – surely there are enough rooms for that.

Sybil's curled up on the bed, fast asleep, when he finally lugs the last of the suitcases up to their room. She stirs a little as he eases off her shoes, but he leans down and murmurs that he'll tell her parents she needed some rest, and she drifts off again.

He's not sure what to do without her in the house; he steps outside their door and peers down the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. At the very least, he figures, he can go downstairs and look at some of the paintings he glanced at when they were ushered inside – he's pretty sure that was an actual Van Dyck in one of the rooms. As he's meandering his way back down the stairs, he looks up to find Lord Grantham, waiting for him below.

"Sybil's asleep," he begins rather apologetically. "She's been exhausted all day..."

Grantham nods slowly. "All right. I can imagine the trip would have done."

"Yes," he replies, suddenly very aware of all of his limbs and his facial expressions and his awkwardness. "I was just coming down to..." Well, really, what was he coming down for?

"Would you like a tour?"

He shuffles a bit, then descends the rest of the stairs. "Erm, yes, your Lordship, that would be nice."

Grantham makes a face at Tom's use of his title. "Please, Tom, you can call me Robert."

"Okay. Sorry. All right." He follows Grantham – he follows _Robert_ – through the main hall (Sybil's father calls it the "saloon," which just makes Tom think of cars, or maybe the American west) and into the dining room where, indeed, there's a real Van Dyck portrait of Charles I on the wall. Tom nearly snorts. Of course Sybil's family was on the side of the royalists in that war, and probably every war, for that matter.

"So is the house Civil War era, too?" he asks, glancing about at the artwork on the walls. "I don't know anything about architecture, so I've got no clue."

Robert shakes his head. "No, no, most of the house is nineteenth century these days. My ancestors liked to remodel." He grips the back of one of the dining chairs. "Same architect who did Westminster, actually."

Tom can't stop himself from smirking – of course it is. "I did think it looked a little familiar when we drove up."

Robert just looks over at him and raises an eyebrow, before ushering him through a series of other rooms – a drawing room, a smoking room full of old portraits, and a rather impressive library, where Grantham offers him the run of the books for his visit.

They retrieve their coats from a closet just off the hall – he half expects a butler to pop out and scold them for helping themselves, but no, still no liveried figures showing up out of nowhere – and head out on to the grounds of the estate, "much smaller than they once were," Robert explains. He can't imagine. The lawns are expansive, and the long gravel road up to the house seems to snake along for miles.

"Sybil told me you like cars," Robert explains, leading him toward a large outbuilding behind the main house. "My father developed quite the collection over the years, and I just haven't had the heart to sell any of them." There's a cold chill inside the big garage, which smells of dusty concrete and motor oil. Robert flips a large light switch, illuminating a row of about fifteen classic cars – right off the bat he sees a little MG, a couple of old Austin-Healeys, and a racing green Triumph Spitfire that seems to have been conjured straight from his boyhood dreams.

"Jesus Christ," he says reverently, and Grantham laughs. "Quite a collection – holy shit, that's an Aston Spider."

Robert chuckles and takes him down the line. "The oldest one we've still got is the 1920 Renault – back from the days when there were chauffeurs and staff all over the place." He pats the bonnet lightly. "They used to bring it out occasionally when I was a boy, but now we mostly just rent it out to film productions and things."

"May I?" he asks, jumping into the driver's seat when Robert nods. He runs his hands over the steering wheel. "Amazing."

The earl shrugs a little. "I think so. I used to spend hours out here with my father when I was a boy. My girls have so far been wholly uninterested."

He crosses his arms over his chest and goes through a little internal debate before tentatively offering, "We just found out that the baby's a boy. Maybe he'll be a little more interested." The words taste funny as they leave his tongue – he hasn't yet really started to think of the wee thing as an actual person who will have actual preferences and ideas and a personality someday.

A strange look passes over Grantham's face; he looks up at Tom with a small smile, apparently knowing a peace offering when he hears it. "That's wonderful." He hesitates. "And Sybil's healthy, everything's fine?"

He nods slowly. "After the accident, she's been doing really well." He steps down out of the Renault. "I'm glad she wanted to come here. I've been worried that she'd regret not speaking to both of you, I can tell that your family is close."

Robert raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "That's a mighty charitable thing to say after the way that you were targeted a few months ago."

"Hm. I suppose," he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets as he saunters over to the Triumph. "I think I had a poster of this one up on my wall when I was a lad."

"It's not to say that I'm not still wary about the entire situation," Robert continues, "but it's clear that the two of you love each other, and you haven't done anything yet that makes me too nervous about my daughter's happiness."

His chest tightens a bit, Sybil's edict about the engagement ring flitting through his thoughts. "I suppose I'm glad of that," he says. "I think it would be easier for Sybil if her entire family agreed with you on that point."

Grantham sighs. "Mary is difficult. Mary has always been difficult. But she has a great capacity for love, and she's loyal to a fault. And sometimes her attempts to protect the things she loves get a bit ... well, out of hand, to put it mildly." He watches as Tom smoothes a hand over the boot of one of the Austins. "And she's prouder than any human being should be, so she'll never say that she's wrong. But I know that she's contrite about the things she said."

"Sybil's already guarded enough," he says, not sure why he suddenly feels like he can unload his feelings on this relative stranger. "After the mess with the last guy – it's taken months for her to be able to trust me. And Mary hasn't helped by questioning Sybil's judgment. I don't think it was Sybil's fault that the guy was such an arse."

"He was an arse," Robert agrees, leaning against a workbench. "I really thought I might be able to find a way to have him deported." He fixes a pointed glare at Tom. "Just so you know, I think it will be far easier to get you kicked out of the country should you do anything at all to hurt my daughter or my grandchild."

Tom holds up his hands. "Noted."

"Well." Sybil's father sighs. "I'm not going to promise that Christmas dinner with my family will be all roses for you, but I do think Mary's learnt her lesson. And Matthew will be here, and that will help." He gestures about. "If you'd like to take any of these out on the estate later this week, just let me know."

It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. "That would be brilliant, thanks." He imagines Sybil sitting beside him in that Spitfire, laughing, her dark hair blowing about like mad as they speed down the gravel lane.

They head back up to the house together, chatting a little about the cars and when they were acquired, and Tom starts to feel like he might actually be able to _like_ Sybil's father – which will surely turn his speeches into horrible shapeless pieces of drivel come election time. Corin will love that.

He finds Sybil in their room, sitting up in bed with her mother stretched out beside her. He hesitates at the doorway and starts to back away, feeling like an intruder, until Sybil urges him to come back inside. "No, don't go, we're just talking about dinner," she says.

He nods at Lady Grantham – Cora? Is he supposed to call her Cora now? He figures he should wait that one out. "Sybil told me that the baby's a boy," she says with a smile. "I hope you don't mind that she did."

Sitting down in a chair near the fireplace, he cringes a little. "Not at all, because I may have accidentally told your husband already, too. Sorry."

"Was he pleased?" Sybil asks, struggling a little as she props herself up higher against the pillows.

"I think he was," he confirms.

"Oh, how could he not be, either way," Cora says with a smile, pressing a kiss to her daughter's hair. "I'm just so happy you're here. Both of you."

Sybil offers him a quiet smile as she lets her mother embrace her, and he can almost read gratitude in her eyes.

* * *

><p>The next few days pass in a blur of dinners and outings and events. Mary, Matthew, and Edith all arrive on the same train the next afternoon, and while Mary does not acknowledge his presence, she also doesn't do anything to pointedly exclude him. They stay busy. The Granthams have a stake in a local football club, and they take everyone out to see a match the day before Christmas Eve. Sybil sits beside him and burrows against his side for warmth.<p>

The dowager comes up to Downton with Sybil's aunt and uncle on Christmas Eve, all spluttering about the drive in Marmaduke's car. "Hello, my darling," she greets Sybil, exclaiming a bit over the small swell that's now plainly visible beneath her clothing. "Don't you look just wonderful."

Sybil raises her eyebrows at him as her grandmother leans in and kisses him on both cheeks. "Tom, it's a pleasure to see you again. I hope you're well."

"I am," he confirms, trying not to laugh as Sybil pulls a face at him.

"Very good, very good," she replies, heading inside with the air of a general ready to inspect her troops.

Christmas, he discovers, follows a very particular pattern at Downton. The family opens gifts on Christmas Eve, and then on Christmas morning they go to church, have a light lunch, watch the Queen's speech on a television in the library, and have an elaborate dinner catered in by a local firm. Only once, Sybil tells him, can she remember any deviation in the schedule, and that was caused by her grandfather's dying two days before Christmas. "And even then, while Papa and Aunt Rosamund were helping plan the funeral, we all had to stop what we were doing to watch the Queen."

Dinner on Christmas Eve is the one area where Sybil's mother is apparently allowed full control of the menu, and every year Cora chooses a different world cuisine. This year is Italian, with plates of every kind of pasta he can think of, mixed in with dishes of fried calamari and mussels. Under her breath, Sybil's grandmother declares the entire spread "typical," but tucks in to a plate of gnocchi with great gusto.

He's pleasantly warmed by a good Italian wine by the time they adjourn to the hall – the _saloon_ – to open gifts. Sybil sits between him and her mother on one of the low sofas while Edith and Matthew sort out the piles of presents. He's so shocked when two wrapped packages are laid at his feet that he doesn't know what to say. Sybil nudges his shoulder and smiles at him. One is from her parents – a cashmere scarf – and another from her grandmother. He opens the package tentatively, slowly unearthing a new watch from the tissue paper. "It's too much," he protests; he hates to think how much it might have cost.

The dowager clucks dismissively, but her eyes are dancing. "If you're going to be responsible for my granddaughter and my first great-grandchild, it's important that you're punctual."

"Oh, Granny, really, he's not _responsible_ for me," Sybil sighs. "But I like the watch."

"Thank you," he offers, nodding at Lady Grantham, who returns his nod a bit conspiratorially.

He really should have been paying more attention to the gifts as they were distributed, because he doesn't notice that Sybil is tearing into the paper of his present until she's almost completely unwrapped it. "No!" he exclaims as she lifts the lid of the box, drawing all eyes in the room to him. "I mean – that wasn't meant for now."

"Oh, goodness, I hope it's appropriate," Aunt Rosamund quips.

"No, no, it's just—"

Sybil is quietly peering into the box. "Tom, what on earth?" She pulls a slip of paper from the contents and scans it, then pulls out a series of heavy hardback books. "What is this?"

"It's..." he swallows a little, suddenly keenly aware of the eyes of the room upon them. "It's for next fall. It's the textbooks for—"

"For one of the LSE classes," she nearly whispers. "For the health policy degree." She looks over at him. "You got the syllabus?"

"Oh," he hears Cora murmur as he rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. "I have a friend who knows someone in the department," he admits.

"But – I just – I'm not sure..."

"I just thought that..." He lowers his voice and leans closer to her. "I thought that you'd have time to read soon. And I know you're disappointed that you're not going to Africa, and I just thought – I don't think that you – I wanted you to know that you could still..." He shakes his head and sighs, completely out of words. That's why he wanted to give her the books – he thought this, surely, was a gift that could say things to her that he felt he could not.

She stands suddenly and, grabbing his hand, pulls him away from the rest of the family and into the library, shutting the door behind them. He starts to say something, but then realises she's crying. "Jesus," he says. "Oh, Jesus, I didn't mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to know that – that I don't want you to have to give up the things you want just because I – just because of the baby. I'm so sorry, Sybil—"

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "Don't be sorry." And she launches herself into his arms, hugging him to her tightly. With a heavy sigh, he wraps his arms about her, tucking her head under his chin and letting her cry.

When she pulls back, he looks at her with wide eyes. "I don't understand."

She swipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm really happy that the baby is yours."

That throws him off guard – his forehead wrinkles as he murmurs, "What?"

"I just – I don't know if I've said that before. But I am. I was so stupid that night, so stupid, going home with a man I didn't know, and it could have ended so, so badly for me." She looks up at him with wet eyes. "And it didn't. And that's so lucky. Because it's you, and it's just—"

She reaches up and kisses him, somehow soft and firm at the same time. When she pulls back, he's breathing hard. She presses her cheek to his chest.

And suddenly, in that moment, he knows that she loves him, too, and he feels his heart jump up into his throat and catch. He exhales shakily, reaching up with one hand to stroke at her hair. They stand there for a long while – he's not really sure how long – until there's a soft tap at the door. Sybil's mother is there, peeking through the opening. "Sweetheart, is everything all right?"

"Yes," Sybil says, her voice sounding steadier than his feels. "Yes, everything's just fine." She pulls back and wipes at her cheeks once more, fairly dragging him back to the family.

* * *

><p>He sits dumbly beside her for the rest of the evening, his fingers twined through hers, his heart racing. Eventually she makes excuses for them – she's so exhausted, and the baby's moving about like mad, and she just wants to sleep. Cora reaches for his hand and squeezes it with a sad smile as they make their way to the staircase. He feels like he's on another planet. She loves him. She must, that's the only explanation. She <em>loves<em> him.

They mount the stairs to their room slowly, Sybil's breathing growing audibly laboured as they reach their door. "Okay?" he asks quietly as they step inside.

She nods, closing the door behind them. "Too many steps, that's all." He hears the lock click into place, and then her lips are soft against his again, her fingers slipping into the collar of his shirt, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Oh, Tom," she murmurs, their mouths meeting again and again until he feels like he might combust if he can't touch her. Before he knows it, they're on the bed, her legs tangling with his as she unbuttons his shirt as quickly as her fumbling fingers allow her to do. The room is quiet save for the crackling of the fire in the grate – he wonders fleetingly who lit it, but her lips against his neck silence his brain.

Her hands and her mouth are insistent, and it seems like she's trying to say things she's not ready to say with words with her body instead. And soon they're naked together, clinging tightly, and her skin is so soft and warm against his. She makes a quiet noise of frustration when the swell of the baby keeps her from drawing even closer to him. He moves behind her, wrapping his arms about her, and as they join together and begin to move, he presses his face to her throat, feeling her satisfied sighs. She laces her fingers through his, arches her back, cries out as his hands slide across her body. Her touch is overwhelming, the feeling of her all around him, and it's almost too much.

He feels like he's floating as he rests beside her after, stroking his fingers across her cool white arms. It's like a dream – she turns to him and runs her fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his throat. He captures her mouth, lips moving lazily, and feels a quiet groan of satisfaction rumble in his chest.

"I don't really know if I'll be able to take those classes and take care of the baby at the same time," she says quietly, looking up at him nervously. "It might be too much."

He pulls her closer, kissing the top of her head. "I'm going to be there, too. Between the two of us, we can handle it. I promise."

"I just – Tom, I only got you a new jumper," she groans, and he can't help but laugh.

They fall asleep tangled together, and he's not sure he's ever felt happier.

* * *

><p>He wakes early the next morning and showers, rubbing a towel across his damp hair as he pads back into the bedroom. Sybil's still curled in the blankets, her dark hair wild and tangled. He smiles to himself, shaking his head, and heads over to his suitcase to retrieve a fresh shirt.<p>

But when he opens the lid, there's something else staring up at him – a thick folder of papers. Frowning, he flips back the cover, and it doesn't take him long to realise that he's staring at the Conservative Party's plans for the upcoming election.


	15. Chapter 15

_Thanks so much for your feedback on the last chapter! I'd love to hear what you think of this one, too._

* * *

><p>"Tom?"<p>

He doesn't know how long he's been standing by the window, staring down at the papers in his suitcase – but apparently long enough that Sybil's managed to both wake and notice. He fixes a smile on to his face and closes the lid of the suitcase before turning to her. "Morning," he says.

"What are you doing?" She sits up in bed, the morning light casting long beams across her skin, her hair falling all around her shoulders. She pulls the covers up to her chest and shivers. "It's freezing in here."

"Trying to figure out what I'm supposed to wear to church," he replies, trying to keep his voice light and easy. Surely it was Mary. It must have been – Sybil's father surely wouldn't have done it. He coughs. "Haven't darkened the door of a house of worship since I was an altar boy."

She tilts her head and regards him. "I'm trying to imagine little Tom Branson, all blond hair and big blue eyes, obediently carrying a Bible down the aisle of a cathedral."

"It was hardly a cathedral," he counters, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the bed. He reaches out a hand and twines one of her long curls around his index finger, trying to swallow down his anger. "You look gorgeous in the morning, have I ever told you that?" That part isn't difficult to say genuinely.

She lays back with a soft smile on her face, taking one of his hands in hers and sliding it beneath the duvet to rest against the curve of her belly. "He's moving so much this morning," she says softly, guiding his palm across her skin. "That's what woke me. Here."

They sit silently for a long while, but he still can't feel his son's movements beneath Sybil's flesh. He focuses harder, afraid that he's missing it because all he can think about is the folder. But still nothing – just not yet, anyway. "I'm jealous," he says, peeling back the covers so that he can press a soft kiss to her bare abdomen. "He and I need to come to some kind of understanding, so that he knows he needs to say hello to me, too."

"I'll give him a stern scolding," she murmurs, sitting up and urging him along with her, until she can scoot close enough to touch her mouth to his, kissing him slowly, languidly. She smiles against his lips. "Happy Christmas."

"Mm," he replies, kissing her forehead softly. "Happy Christmas to you, too."

"The best one I've had in a long while," she declares, sliding out of bed and striding, naked skin glorious in the sunlight, toward the en-suite. She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "I don't think I can thank you enough for that – that you were willing to come here, with all of them, after the last time."

He feels warmth rising on his face, glances over at the suitcase, feels his stomach twist a little. "No thanks necessary," he says.

"Regardless." She rests a hand against the doorframe. "I do appreciate it. So much."

As soon as he hears the spray of the shower, he drops his head into his hands, breathing deeply. She is happy, happier than he's seen her in weeks – maybe happier than he's ever seen her in the short time they've known each other. Why can't they see that, why can't they value that? He knows what this must be for, and it makes him so angry – _so_ angry – that Mary would jeopardise Sybil's happiness to make a point. He wants to run down the hallway, banging his fists against the doors until Mary's face appears inside one of them, so that he can shove the papers in her face and shout at her. How dare she try to trap him, try to make Sybil distrust him? How dare she?

But he can fairly feel the joy radiating from Sybil as they walk, hand in hand, with the rest of the family to the village church, so he tries to bury the worry for the moment. The air is crisp, and it almost hurts as he sucks in lungful after lungful. He cannot make himself look at Mary; he fears that he might make a scene, right there and then.

Sybil's soft, clear voice rings out beside him as she sings along with the familiar hymns of Christmas morning, songs that he recognises from childhood masses and television adverts. He wraps an arm around her back, curling his palm around her shoulder, pulling her close. They'll have a son by this time next year, a little baby who will probably wail and scream through church on Christmas morn. He glances over at the Crawleys gathered in the pew beside and behind them, Violet's silvery hair, Edith's blond curls, Rosamund's coppery head. He decides that he cannot let this pass without comment, but also that he cannot let Sybil know.

* * *

><p>They have their luncheon; they watch the Queen on the telly, with Robert offering up a story from his most recent weekly trip to Buck House, something about tripping over Her Majesty's favourite corgi on his way into the meeting. "Thank God Geidt didn't say anything, I'd have been out of that palace on my rear end, I'm afraid," he chuckles.<p>

Mary's clear laugh rings out, and Tom fixes his eyes on her, watching her carefully, trying to view her objectively rather than as a one-note villain from a melodrama. She perches on the edge of a sofa, with Matthew beside her, his arm draped behind her casually as they chat with Duke and Rosamund about their wedding plans, apparently back on track. He wonders if she ever softens from the cold, careful woman who makes television appearances and growls at anyone who dares question the Tory agenda. Does she relax ever? Maybe when he's not in the room? He imagines that she frowned deeply when she heard that he'd be joining the family for Christmas this year.

She meets his eyes suddenly from across the room, and he startles, nervous to be caught staring at her. Her gaze narrows almost imperceptibly, and he shakes his head a bit, hoping to convey his displeasure without alerting Sybil to the situation. She's chatting happily to her mother from beside him, something about news from her family in America.

About an hour later, though, he can sense that Sybil's flagging. After one too many deep, uncomfortable yawns, she rises a bit unsteadily. "Do you mind if I go lay down before dinner?" she asks her mother softly, pressing a hand firmly to the small of her own back.

"No, no, of course not," Cora replies, clearly eager to get to mother her own baby once again. Sybil asks him to come get her before the meal, smoothing her palm over the back of his head as she looks down on him.

He murmurs his assent, trying to look easy and comfortable, watching the sway of her hips as she leaves the drawing room and heads up the stairs. Soon after, the family begins to disperse, and he seizes his opportunity.

He runs up the stairs to their room, opening the door and shuffling across the carpeting as softly as he can, wincing a little as the zipper on his suitcase jingles as he lifts the lid. Sybil, already deep in open-mouthed sleep, doesn't even stir. He throws one last glance her way before heading back downstairs, papers in hand.

Mary is walking toward the front door, mobile in hand, when he reaches the bottom of the staircase. "I need to speak with you," he says, as low as he can manage.

She turns around and lifts one sculpted eyebrow in recognition. "I'm terribly busy at the moment."

"It's not a request," he replies shortly, earning a pursed-lipped expression from her.

"Fine," she says smoothly, gliding toward a small room filled with family portraits; earls and countesses of Grantham seem to peer out at him from every vantage point.

He drops the folder on to a low coffee table with a thud. She tilts her head and regards him. "You've had that for a while today, haven't you? Had a chance to look things over?"

"Pardon me, _milady_, but what the actual fuck do you think you're doing?" he hisses, burying his hands deeply in his trouser pockets.

Mary just stares at him for a long moment. "Good reading?" she asks finally. "I assume you enjoyed it."

"I didn't see anything but the first page," he snaps. "I didn't need to. I know a trap when I see one."

She laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, I'll bet you do." She steps toward the window, looks out over the dim light of early evening as it washes the lawn in grey.

"Listen," he says, trying to stop himself from seething. _Sybil_, he reminds himself. _Sybil_. "Listen, I know that you hate me. I get it. I am the worst person in the world to you. But for Christ's sake, would you think of your sister for once? Do you really want your father to kick me out of this house? Do you want your baby sister to have to raise her son alone?"

She whirls around suddenly. "I am always thinking of my sister," she says, emotion finally invading her voice, cracking the cool veneer. "How dare you suggest otherwise?"

"How dare I?" he parrots. "Can you possibly be serious? Your sister is pregnant with my child, and you'll do anything to try to cut me out of her life, won't you? I mean, for fuck's sake!" He turns around and grips the back of a sofa, willing himself to calm down.

"Yes, my sister suddenly turns up pregnant with the child of a man who is so conveniently placed within the political opposition," she says, her voice a barely restrained shout. "Never having so much breathed a word of your name to any of us, and she's having your baby. And it's so shocking that any of us could _possibly_ think that you might be exploiting her? Oh, so ridiculous, I know."

He shakes his head. "How many times do I have to tell you that I didn't know who she was when we met?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I don't believe you?" she shoots back tartly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't get me wrong, Mr. Branson, I firmly believe that you have genuine convictions and a real commitment to your ideals. But I also firmly believe that you've been raised to think that you are entitled to go to extraordinary lengths to realise those ideals."

"Fine. You're never going to believe me, I get it." He swallows. "I'm a liberal. I'm Irish. I'm a fucking terrorist, whatever the hell you want to believe, go on ahead. I can see there's no changing your mind."

"And finally we agree on something," she says. "So I should expect to see the first three pages or so referenced in Corin's remarks on trade policy in the coming days?"

He looks at her, just looks at her for a moment, posed so defensively, chin raised, arms crossed, eyes defiant. "Can't reference something I didn't read," he bites back, heading toward the door. "But I can tell you this, if your sister even hears a _word_ about this, I'll tell her what you've done, and I'll not be ashamed to do it."

"Right, because that's what your priority is, clearly," she says, almost as if she can't help but lob a retort his way. "My sister's happiness."

He stops short of the door. "Yes, actually, it is," he replies tightly, regarding her. "It just so happens that it is."

"Well, we've all heard that before." There's an almost weary edge to her voice. "You can save it. We'll be here for her when you piss off back to Ireland or betray her during the election or sell her out to the press. At least you can rely on that."

The dowager's caution about Sybil not being disposable echoes in his brain – how alike she and Mary are, but how different at the same time. "That's the real reason she's been angry with you, you know," he offers, turning away, surveying one of the nineteenth-century paintings on the wall. "Because you think she can't be trusted to choose her own partner. Because she thinks that _you_ think that she's just some vulnerable idiot."

"I think that my sister is far too kind for her own good, always worrying too much about other people, never sparing a thought for herself," Mary replies. "I'll bet she's going to all lengths to deprive herself of anything that might be even remotely bad for the baby, isn't she? Forget her own wants and desires, she'll sacrifice those in a heartbeat. And that's what's frightening. Charity is one thing, obsession is another. And it blinds her. And people take advantage of that."

"I'm not Simon," he says gruffly. "I may not be what you envisioned for her, I may not be like Matthew" – here she snorts – "but I'm not him."

She turns back to the window once more. "You've got no clue," she says. "You've got no idea."

"She's told me. And your grandmother has, too."

He thinks that she'll flinch in surprise when she hears that the dowager has taken him into her confidence, but she has no reaction at all. "All I know is this," she says, and her voice is icy again. "I stood by and watched a man utterly ruin my sister once – take her from a vibrant and happy and beautiful young girl to a shell of herself, depressed and nervous and self-loathing – and I will not do it again." She levels him with a look that he can imagine would frighten the bollocks right off a debate opponent. "I will not."

It takes him a moment to recover his voice. "You will not," he agrees. "Not on my account, anyway. She won't be hurt by me."

She sweeps past him, scooping up the papers, stopping briefly before she turns the doorknob. "Prove it," she says, voice low and dark, before throwing open the door and disappearing into the depths of the house.

* * *

><p>On Boxing Day they pack up the car early in the morning and get ready to head south before most of the house is even awake. Both of them have to be back at work the next day, and he's not even a little bit sorry to be able to use that as an excuse to head for home. Christmas dinner had been fine – Uncle Duke had gulped down a couple of glasses of wine and then spent most of the meal talking to him about the new mobile phone he thinks he should invest in – and Sybil had pulled him upstairs afterward and made love to him once more, slow and soft and maddening. But he can't shake the feeling that the other shoe's going to drop – that it was far too easy to wriggle his way out of the trap that Mary Crawley had laid for him.<p>

Sybil hugs her parents tightly, and Robert shakes his hand. "We'll see you for dinner after we come back down to London?" Cora asks, hugging him quickly.

"I would like that," Sybil replies, letting Tom help her into the passenger seat of the car. She waves back at them until the house is completely shrouded by the leafless trees that line the road.

They ride in comfortable silence for a long time, he concentrating on taking the right exit onto the motorway, she seemingly lost in thought, staring out the window.

"What do you want to call him?" she asks out of the blue, twenty minutes after they've reached the M1.

"Call who?" he asks absently, wincing when he realises what she means. "Sorry. Call _him_." He reaches over and runs the back of his left hand gently across her belly.

"I'm offended on his behalf," she replies, pressing back into the seat. "Do you want to name him after your father?"

"No," he says quickly, maybe too quickly. "I just mean – no."

"Okay," she says, voice wary. "I just thought maybe. Anyway."

He changes lanes, the sound of the indicator clicking loudly through the car. "Do you want to name him after _your_ father?"

"Nothing against Papa, but not particularly," she says. "I don't know. I never thought about having a son. I never thought about having a baby, honestly."

He glances over at her, but she's staring out at the passing scenery. "You didn't have a list of names for your future children all drawn up by the time you were ten or eleven?"

She shrugs. "Not that I can remember. I never planned weddings or anything either."

"I thought all little girls did that."

"I just remember playing in the mud a lot at that age," she says. "Building forts and things, getting lost on the estate grounds for hours."

"Sounds nice."

She shifts again. "It was, in hindsight. You know, much as it's a difficult place, much as it represents things that I don't believe in, I can't deny that it was a wonderful place to be a child."

"Well, good. We'll take our child there then, and he can drag mud through the halls and hide toads in our beds and raise hell just like I'm sure his mother did."

She snorts. "Oh, honestly, Tom."


	16. Chapter 16

_Note: This chapter definitely took a little longer, but I hope it's worth the wait! I'd love to hear what you think._

* * *

><p>The Tube is so crowded with people that when they push their way onto the train, there's barely anywhere to stand, let alone sit. Tom glares a bit at the teenagers who won't give up their seats for Sybil – her coat is open, and the dress she's wearing makes it perfectly clear that she's pregnant, and yet none of them even glance up from their mobiles. He sighs and grasps one of the bars to steady himself, looping one arm securely around her waist and pulling her to his side.<p>

She shuffles a little in her heels – he'd hardly been able to believe it earlier that evening when she walked out of the bedroom in that dress and those shoes, and the quiet whistle he'd let out had been completely involuntary. "Look at you," he'd marvelled.

"Oh, stop it," she'd said, blushing all the way down her neck. "It's New Year's Eve, the one night when you're supposed to dress up like a disco ball."

Disco ball it wasn't. The dress was short, glittery gold, and clung to her body, showing off the small swelling of her belly. Her heels seemed a mile high. "No, it's like ... like you're a glass of champagne or something," he'd suggested, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness.

She'd laughed. "Says the writer."

He'd grinned a little goofily at her – she looked outstanding, and he was the lucky man who got to take her out for the night. "Those shoes are impressive," he'd replied, quirking an eyebrow.

Sybil had put a hand on the back of the sofa as she raised one foot in the air. "I wouldn't dare if I didn't know that you'd catch me if I fell," she had said, and he realised after a long moment that she was actually flirting with him a bit. How far they had come.

Now, she was pressed firmly against his side, her little tummy fairly wedged against his hip. The shoes made her almost as tall as him, and he could lean his chin against her cheek as they swayed along with the motion of the train.

"Don't fall," he murmurs, mouth close to her ear. She clutches his coat and shimmies even a little bit closer, smiling quietly to herself.

He glances up and sees one of their fellow passengers gaping at them. They're all dressed up – he's in the best suit he owns, and Sybil's hair is ironed pin straight, dark makeup ringing her eyes – but clearly they're still easily recognisable. He nearly sighs when the woman persists in staring even after he's made eye contact with her. But Sybil doesn't seem bothered; she just hums a little as the train begins to slow as it pulls in to a station.

Enough people disembark from the car that they're able to sit down. Sybil crosses her legs, long limbs encased in black stockings, and he rests one hand atop her knee, squeezing softly. The night itself promises to be an interesting one – they're headed to a nightclub to meet with some of Sybil's university friends who are in the city for the holiday.

When she'd gotten a text from one of them inviting her – both of them, really – to come along, he'd thought that she would turn it down; she'd been so reluctant to go to places where they might be photographed or cornered. Sybil had debated the pros and cons of going for a couple of days, even going so far as to ring Matthew and ask him whether or not it was a good idea, considering that there might well be photographers laying in wait outside of the entrance.

"You can't live your life in hiding, Sybil," Matthew had said gently – he'd been able to hear Matthew's end of the conversation from across the dining room table. "But unless photographers physically threaten or endanger you, this is one of those moments when a complaint probably wouldn't hold much water."

Sybil had been a little frustrated at that – "I wasn't suggesting that we'd file a complaint," she'd vented after ending the call, adding, "I just wanted to make sure we wouldn't look like total hypocrites." Finally, she'd decided that they should just go, and then there was extra angst about whether or not Tom was really okay with the plan. (He was – he was honestly fine with it. Honestly.)

The rhythm of the train is a little hypnotic; it's warm and close, and she's soft against his side. He drapes an arm over the back of the seat, fingertips dancing against her shoulder. "So tell me again who's going to be there," he says.

She peers over at him and frowns. "I've told you probably ten times."

He shrugs. "Tell me again. I want to make sure I get this right."

"Well," she begins, glancing over at him. "There's Fiona. She's probably my best friend from uni, even though we haven't really talked much lately – she's from Glasgow, and she's in medical school now." She rattles off a few more names – Bridget, Alice, Margaret, Leonora, the names of various boyfriends. "Did you text Dave about coming along?"

"I did," he confirms, still pleased that she'd thought to include his friends, too. "I got a maybe last night. Don't be offended if he doesn't show. He and Lil don't usually do a posh New Year's Eve."

"Is this a posh New Year's Eve?" she asks, crinkling her nose.

He chuckles. "Posher than the usual lager and telly that I usually engage in on the day, anyway."

There's a glint in her eye. "I think a truly posh New Year's Eve would involve a country house, a bathtub full of dubious booze, and slightly culturally-insensitive fancy dress."

He snorts. "Spoken like someone with experience."

"No, no," she says lightly. "Well, no comment, anyway." She leans against him, and her hair smells sweet. "I really sort of wish we were just going to a normal house party or something. Something a little less ... I don't know. Less."

"If you want to leave, say the word, and we'll leave," he promises. She nods, leaning her head against his cheek and yawning a little.

* * *

><p>When they arrive at the club, there are only two paparazzi hanging out by the door, and they're so occupied with mumbling about royal princesses that Tom and Sybil manage to sneak in unnoticed. And the place isn't as ritzy as he feared – he'd been conjuring up visions of ballrooms at the Ritz or the Savoy from old films, with tuxedoed men and their gowned dates swaying along with an orchestra as champagne flowed from a fountain of glasses. But as they check their coats, he can tell that the place is sort of a cross between one of those grand old places and the dark, close, reverberating clubs that he used to be dragged to in university. Not so dark, not so loud; sleek but not terrifying.<p>

Sybil clutches his hand and smoothes down her dress, taking a deep breath. "Okay," she says. "Good?"

He nods and lets her lead him through the crowd, toward a group of people in a large booth toward the back of the club. Sybil is greeted by a series of squeals and hugs, handbags and sparkling nail varnish everywhere. When she's able to pull back, she grasps his hand. "Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Tom," she introduces him. She's called him that before, certainly, but only in pre-arranged family situations. He decides that he thinks she means it this time.

They squeeze into the booth, with Sybil sort of half on his lap so they'll all fit. Her friends are nice enough – a little overly privileged, a little too moneyed, maybe. Their boyfriends nod a bit without fully looking up from their mobiles. He doesn't feel entirely comfortable around them, but he hopes he's hiding it well. He sips at a glass of champagne and tries to follow along with the conversation. Fiona's talking about her latest exam, Bridget – who does something in PR, he doesn't really understand what – is narrating her latest encounter with an up-and-coming actor.

And then the conversation turns to the two of them, and to the baby, and when he's going to be born. "May," Sybil answers, tracing the condensation on her glass of water with her fingers. "So we're about halfway there."

Margaret – he thinks she's Margaret – shakes her head. "I just couldn't believe it when I saw it in the papers," she says. "I mean, of all of us, the one who can't stand babies is having the first one?"

"I don't – it's not that I can't _stand_ babies," she says, glancing over at Tom. "I just never thought I'd actually _have_ one."

He nods. "That's what you said before."

"And honestly, they've never liked me very much, either," she says quietly, leaning back against him.

"It's just so crazy. So crazy." Margaret's clearly already a bit in her cups. "I mean, it's brilliant! But it's crazy."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" Fiona asks.

Sybil looks over at him. "It's a boy," he supplies, searching her face. She nods a little.

Fiona's eyes go huge. "Oh, gosh, a little mini prime minister," she laughs, nudging Sybil with her shoulder. "I'll bet your dad nearly died when you told him."

"He was pretty happy about it," Sybil says. "They're all excited, I think."

The conversation starts to buzz, and Sybil turns to him, slipping her hand into his and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I know it's a bit boring, but we can leave as soon as it's midnight," she whispers.

"It's fine, it's not boring," he says. "Do I look bored? Maybe that's just how my face is."

She rolls her eyes at him, resting her head on his shoulder. But he's not lying – it's good – it's a good thing that she's seeing her friends. He'd been wondering for weeks where her friends from university were, or even those friends she'd accompanied to Keeler's party. She may have claimed she was afraid of being photographed, but he was almost certain she'd been embarrassed about being pregnant, maybe was afraid to let people see her that way. At least she'd gotten past that.

As the clock ticks down closer to midnight, her friends drag their partners out on to the dance floor. Sybil begs off. Fiona gives her a sceptical eyebrow – "I know that being pregnant doesn't mean you can't dance," she cajoles.

"But being tired and wearing too-tall shoes means that I won't," Sybil replies with a little laugh, earning an eye roll and a smile from her friend.

She drapes one arm over his shoulder, still perched on his lap. "I'm probably too heavy," she murmurs close to his ear.

"You're just fine," he says, shifting her on his lap so that they're both more comfortable. He toys with the hem of her skirt. "Are you okay?"

"Mm," she nods, stroking at the shoulder of his jacket. "They're a little much, I know."

"No, it's—"

"No, really, I think they're a little much." She gazes out toward the dance floor, watching them laugh and wiggle around under the lights. "They were all in my hall when we were freshers, and we sort of grouped together and never really ungrouped. But I think I changed a lot while I was at uni. I'm not the same as I was when I was nineteen."

He shrugs. "How many of us are, really?"

"Yeah," she says. "Did you have friends like that? I mean – university friends that it was just easier not to see anymore after a while?"

"Sure, I think so," he replies. "Maybe it's a little different for men."

"Maybe," she says. Her fingers curl into the collar of his shirt. "I remember when they found out that I was going to Africa for the first time – I was supposed to go on a trip to Spain with a whole group of people, but I'd been reading this book about education for women in developing nations, and I just – I couldn't do it, you know? I knew I needed to start using my time for things more important than sunning on some yacht in the Mediterranean. They thought I was abandoning them."

He strokes over her hip, the sparkly material of her dress rough under his fingers. "People grow up. Some just faster than others."

She leans in and kisses him then, her mouth soft against his, his hand lingering on her belly. She pulls back but snuggles against him, turning to look out at the dance floor once more. He closes his eyes and rests his face in her hair, but as he exhales, he feels her stiffen.

"What—?" he asks, leaning back to look at her.

"Nothing," she says. "Nothing." He gives her a look and she shrugs. "I think Simon's here. I didn't even think..."

He pulls her closer almost without thinking. "Do you want to leave?"

"No," she says. "We're here. He's the one who needs to be ashamed, not me." But he notices that she presses a hand against her stomach protectively as she says it. "Can you get me some water?"

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "I promised Matthew I would text him and let him know about the photographers. And I want to text Edith, too."

She slides off his lap, and she's reaching in her bag for her phone when he turns her face toward his and kisses her again, deeply, enough that both of them are a little breathless when they separate. "Text me if you need me," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her cheek before striding off toward the closest bar.

He's queuing for a cup of water and a beer – too much champagne always made him an absolute idiot, and there was no reason Sybil should have to deal with that on the way home – when he realises that someone's standing over his shoulder. He turns around and raises his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

"So you're the new boyfriend," the man says. He's taller than Tom and darker, a little overly groomed in Tom's opinion, but certainly good looking. Tom is immediately suspicious.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool.

The man sticks out his hand, waiting for Tom to shake it. "Simon Collins," he says as he pumps his hand.

"Oh," Tom replies. Just as he had feared. She hadn't been seeing things – he was definitely here. The first love, the first sex, the first heartbreak, the first everything for Sybil. He can't imagine that she let this man touch her, and thinking about the fact that she did makes him a wee bit queasy. This is the man who betrayed her.

"And you're Tom Branson," he says. "I've seen you with her in the papers."

He shrugs. "Not surprising. The press has been relentless enough."

"So it's true that she's – going to have a baby?"

Tom swallows – are they announcing things? What would Sybil want him to say? He glances back toward their booth, seeing her touch her stomach lightly as she looks intently down at her mobile. "Yes, it's true," he says, meeting Simon's gaze coolly. _And it's mine_, he hopes that gaze implies. And the baser Neanderthal inside of him echoes, _and she's mine, too_, though he'd never dare say that aloud.

Simon shakes his head. "Hard to believe she was ready for that, all of the things she wanted to do."

Tom's brow furrows. Who does this jerk think he is, commenting on Sybil's hopes and dreams like he has some right to do so? "Well," Tom replies.

"And it's also true that you work for Labour?"

"Yes."

The music in the background gets louder, starts to throb a little. Tom crosses his arms over his chest and waits. "Can't imagine the earl's too pleased about any of it," Simon sniffs.

"I don't speak for Lord Grantham," Tom replies tightly, turning back toward the bar.

"I just hope she's well," Simon offers. "And healthy, and happy, and all that."

"I think she is," he says. He can't resist going further. "She's not worried any more about whether or not her bank balance will have mysteriously changed without her knowledge." He glances back at Simon blithely, watches him clench his jaw.

It's his turn to order, so he asks for their drinks. As he pays, he tosses an extra ten pound note on the bar. "Here," he says. "Have a feeling the chap behind me may need a little extra to cover his costs." He nods at Simon. "Hope that helps."

Simon's gone red in the face. "Just because you got her pregnant – that doesn't mean you've actually got a chance with her, you realise," he shoots back.

"I'm perfectly aware of that," he says, "and yet she sleeps in my bed anyway. Who'd have thought?" He regrets the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth – he hopes to God that they won't get back to her. But he's too angry. He shrugs again. "Lovely to meet you. Don't ever go near her again."

* * *

><p>He leaves Simon grunting at the bar and heads back across the crowded room to the booth, to Sybil. She yawns and leans against him sleepily, letting him run his fingers through her hair. She doesn't sleep, but she sort of drifts until rouses her just at midnight, so that he can kiss in 2012 with her.<p>

He thinks a little about the previous New Year's Eve – he'd been with Laura at Dave's flat, and when he looks back on things, he should have known then that things weren't right. She'd kissed him half-heartedly, wandered around the party for most of the night, disappeared into the loo, spent too much time staring at her phone. It had felt right at the moment, but it hadn't been right. As much as it had hurt when she left him, he could admit now that it was for the better.

It's easier and easier to see that, he knows, because of Sybil – because he's not alone anymore. In a few months he'd gone from being very alone to being very not alone – from loneliness to something that might be a family. Sybil says goodbye to her friends and they take a cab back to his flat. She's nearly asleep on her feet when he unlocks the door; he half carries her into the bedroom, helps her kick off her shoes and shed her dress and her stockings. She crawls under the covers and is out almost immediately.

He undresses and brushes his teeth, staring up at himself in the mirror – remembering the way he'd looked at his reflection on that first night with her, when he was so caught up in his own desires for companionship and affection that he was stupid enough to get her pregnant. Stupid, though, maybe not – things weren't perfect, but they were a hell of a lot better than they were for a long time.

Next New Year's Eve they'd have to hire a sitter if they wanted to go out, for a little boy not quite seven months old. He shakes his head, flips off the light. How much things had changed in a year. How much things would change in the next one, too.


	17. Chapter 17

_Note: Updating this a bit early as a giant thank you to those who nominated me for the Highclere Awards! I'm up for six, including three for "both alike in dignity"! Hooray! (If you'd like to, you can vote by going to DowntonFanAward on Twitter; I also have the nominations and voting links up on my fic tumblr, thetwistedroots.) Thanks a million, everybody! :)_

* * *

><p>He's minding his own business on a normal Wednesday evening, strolling down one of the halls at Westminster on his way to catch the bus home, when he realises that someone's running to catch up with him.<p>

"Tom?"

He turns; he can't mask his surprise when he sees Jennifer, her curly red hair even more unruly than usual, waiting a few feet behind him. "Erm – hello," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I just – can I speak with you, just for a minute or two?" she asks, and he realises that she's nervous, wringing her hands and shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"I guess so," he says, stepping a bit closer, but she shakes her head.

"Not here. Let's – here, just this way?"

He glances around – doesn't seem to be anyone there to see. He's keenly aware these days of people hanging about whose express purpose seems to be to take things the wrong way.

But it turns out he needs to be less worried about now and more worried about tomorrow morning. "I'm sorry," she says after the duck into a small alcove. "I just wanted to say that I'm really, honestly sorry."

And then he starts to panic. "Exactly what are you sorry about?" he asks, trying to keep his voice measured.

Her eyes widen – he thinks he can see her hands trembling. "They've not called you?"

"Who – who hasn't called me?" He swallows. "What's going on?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "There's going to be a story – I was approached by a couple of people, and they offered me a lot of money." She exhales shakily. "I've been having a lot of trouble ... I could barely make rent this month."

His face feels numb. "What story, Jennifer?"

She winces. "I told them that you and I went out together while you were seeing Lady Sybil."

"We – I wasn't – oh, _Christ_," he mutters, covering his hands with his face. "Which paper?"

She rattles off the name of one of the tabloids that has been relentless in their attempts to find something salacious in his relationship with the PM's daughter – the same paper that broke the news of his father's IRA links. "I'm sorry," she says again, but the words ring hollow.

He tries to calm himself down, tries to take deep breaths – he knows that Sybil knew there was a woman coming to his flat the night she told him about the baby, but her parents... "What exactly did you tell them?"

"Just that we had a date earlier this year." She lowers her voice. "Was she really already pregnant when you invited me over for dinner? Because I thought you were single then, but the reporter told me that the dates didn't match up, that she must already have been..."

He just stares at her for a long moment – what can he say? "It's ... complicated," he says, the words sounding totally stupid even as they leave his lips.

She looks at him. "Because honestly I thought that we – I don't know. I was expecting you to ring, and then I saw you in the papers with her, and then the _baby_ stuff, and I just..." She shakes her head. "I needed the money. I'm sorry. But I did."

He just turns and walks away without another word. He hears her call out his name once more behind him, but he just shakes his head and keeps walking, breathing hard, trying not to panic. He's afraid that he'll lose his shit on the bus, so he hails a cab and sits in the backseat with his head in his hands all the way back to his flat.

* * *

><p>Sybil's not home from work yet when he arrives. He sits down heavily on the couch, coat still on, and proceeds to stare at the wall for a lengthy amount of time. He doesn't know how to make this better, because he knows that he didn't do anything wrong, but there's no way that he doesn't come out of this looking like a total and complete jerk.<p>

And now Lord Grantham and Mary are definitely going to team up to eviscerate him, probably on the floor of the House of Commons if they can manage it. And he can't blame them, because part of what's making his stomach clench is that Sybil's going to come out of this once again looking like she can't take care of herself, that she's gullible and primed to be taken advantage of. He knows that's not true, and she knows that's not true, but everyone else...

He doesn't even look up when he hears her key in the door. "Hi," she says breezily as she walks in, tossing her work bag on the floor and shrugging out of her coat. "I have been craving Mexican food all day, I hope you don't mind if—" Her voice trails off. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

"Just – I don't..."

"No," she says, and he looks up to see sheer terror on her face. She shakes her head. "It's bad. You're leaving?"

"No, no, I'm not going anywhere."

"Your mother? Your family?" She pauses. "My family? Is it Granny?"

He takes a deep breath. "No. They're all fine." He swallows hard. "There's going to be a story in the paper tomorrow."

"What kind of story?" she asks, and there's an angry edge creeping into her voice, something doubtful, something that sounds like she's been waiting for this to happen. "Tom."

"Sit down," he says.

She looks like she's about to cry. "What have you done?" she whispers, one hand pressing against her stomach.

"I haven't – it's going to look bad. But I don't think I've done anything wrong." She looks unconvinced. "You know that I was making dinner for someone else the night you told me about the baby."

"Yes," she says warily. "I could tell you were expecting someone." Her jaw clenches a little. "A woman?"

"Yes, it was a woman."

"Was it Laura?"

His brow furrows. "What? No. I haven't seen Laura for almost a year." He sighs. "When you didn't call me, I figured I just needed to get it over with and see someone else. So I went on a date with a girl, and she was coming over here for dinner that night." He looks at her. "We didn't sleep together. I hadn't even kissed her. But I just wanted – I just wanted to stop thinking about you, because I thought there was no chance I'd even see you again when I figured out who you were."

Sybil sits back in the chair and takes a deep breath. "She talked to a reporter?"

"She cornered me at work today and apologised, said they offered to pay her and she needed the money."

"She works at your office?" she asks. "What's her name?"

He shakes his head. "She sells coffee at Westminster." He pauses. "Her name is Jennifer."

"What does she look like?"

"Sybil," he says gently.

"No, I just –" She rubs at a spot low on her belly. "I know I don't need to be jealous, and I know you weren't – you weren't cheating on me or anything."

"But they're going to make it seem like I was," he says, shaking his head. "They're going to say that I cheated on you after I made you pregnant. What a winner I am."

She exhales. "I have to tell my parents."

He closes his eyes and nods. "I'd give anything for it not to have happened."

"It's my fault," she says softly. "I should have called you. I should have told you sooner." She gets up from the chair, struggling a little bit – her balance has started to be a bit off. "I'm going to go call them."

"You don't have to—"

She holds up a hand. "Just let me deal with this, okay?"

She leaves the bedroom door open just enough that he can hear her side of the conversation. He thinks he should probably turn on the telly, make enough noise that he can't hear, but he doesn't want to – honestly, he wants to hear when she's going to tell them, and he wants to make sure that she's okay when she's finished.

He figures out quickly that it's her mother on the other end of the line. There's a long pause after Sybil says that she needs to tell her something.

"No, the baby's okay." Another pause. "Jesus – Mama, no, it's his. He's still here. We're still together." She takes in a shaky breath. "But there's going to be something in the paper tomorrow, and I want to explain."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, she emerges from the bedroom, eyes red and swollen, in her pyjamas instead of her work clothes. He'd lain on the couch during the entire conversation – heard her confess to her mother that the baby was conceived during a casual encounter rather than in a committed relationship – heard her crying and apologising for disappointing them. Part of him had wanted to go into the room and comfort her; part of him knew what a terrible idea that was. At least it sounded as if Cora wasn't scolding her. He wished he could make her believe that what they'd done wasn't something she had to be ashamed of, but he knew that she was, more now than ever before.<p>

After she'd reassured her mother that they were committed now, that they'd worked things through and wanted to stay together ("for the baby," she'd added, which made him feel a bit sick), she'd told her about the story that would most likely be in the paper in the morning. He'd curled up on the sofa, wishing it could just go away. If only he hadn't asked Jennifer out. If only he'd known then what he knew now. If only, if only.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't approach him; instead, she walks into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea, leaning against the counter as she sips slowly. She doesn't acknowledge him as he watches her – she sniffles a little, wipes at her nose with the back of her hand, rubs small circles on her belly as she drinks. When she's finished, she rinses out the mug in the sink and stands for a while, just stands there.

He waits for a long moment before saying anything, but finally he can't hold it in any longer. "Sybil?"

She doesn't acknowledge him. "Sybil," he tries again, resignation creeping in.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says quietly, retrieving her work bag and emptying it methodically on the dining room table. Pencils, file folders, a couple of books, an umbrella, her diary. She begins to organise the contents in piles, setting papers and receipts aside to be binned.

"Please," he fairly begs, standing and watching her. For the baby – for the baby. She's here for the baby, with him for the baby. The words are echoing in his brain.

She's silent, and he can't be any longer. "Sybil. Sybil, I love you."

At that, she finally looks up at him, and the expression on her face is – he shouldn't have said it. He knows immediately that he shouldn't have said it. "Tom," she replies wearily.

But the words are out there in the ether now, escaped, unable to be crammed back into the jar. "You had to know that I do," he says clumsily, swallowing hard, feeling rooted to the spot.

Her mouth twists, and she stares at a spot on the wall rather than looking at him. "It's not exactly a good time," she rasps. "I mean, I come home, and you tell me about another woman, and then I have to tell my parents that we – and then you tell me that you _love_ me?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "What do you want me to say?"

He just stares at her. "I don't know. I don't know. I just – I don't know what to do anymore. You're here, and you're not here, and I just ... I don't know."

And now there are tears shining in her eyes. Oh, Christ. He wants to die. "You love the baby," she says slowly, as if she's choosing and weighing each word carefully.

"I do – I do think I love him, too." He sucks in a deep breath. "At least I think maybe I do. I don't know." He steps a little closer to her. "But I know that I love you. I _know_ that."

"Don't." She shakes her head. "It isn't as easy as that."

"Why not?" he says, feeling frustration rising. "Why can't it be that easy? I love you. I want to be with you because I love you, not just because of him." He gestures toward her belly. "And I – I think you love me, too."

She exhales shakily. "How am I supposed to know that?" she asks. "If I weren't pregnant, if things weren't the way they are, how are we supposed to know that we'd even be here?" She swipes at her cheek. "You wouldn't be saying this if I weren't pregnant with your baby."

"You don't know that," he argues. "And you are pregnant with my baby. That's reality, that's now." He sits down heavily in one of the dining chairs. "I don't know what I would have felt if things were different, but they're not different, Sybil."

She grips on to the back of a chair. "So what about a year from now, when it's really hard taking care of him and he cries all night and I'm a complete, horribly, bitchy mess and you hate me for all of it? What about then?" He doesn't know what to say to that, and she sighs at the silence. "That's what I thought," she murmurs, walking to the bedroom and disappearing into the darkness of the space.

He shakes his head again and follows her, watching as she roots through the drawer where she keeps her things now. "Why won't you just let me?" he asks softly, and she freezes. "Why not?"

"Let you love me?" she says lightly. "I don't think there's much I can do about you saying it."

"Sybil." He sits on the edge of the bed, reaches out and touches her arm.

"It's only been a couple of months, Tom," she says softly. "You don't really even know me that well. And it's been an intense couple of months, too."

"I know what I feel," he replies.

Her shoulders slump a little. "It's so fast. And it's just – it's too much, I don't know." She sits down beside him, but she doesn't touch him. "And you've been so good about all of it, but we just – I have to be realistic, you know?" She looks up at him, and her eyes are red. "We could end up resenting each other." He starts to protest, but she stops him. "No. We could. It's going to be really, really difficult. And I meant it when I said that I'm glad it's yours because you have – you have been so good about it, but it's not going to be easy. I have changed your life so much." She closes her eyes.

"I'm not asking you for anything," he says. "Honestly."

She swallows. "No. But I've asked you for everything, haven't I?" She looks at him. "And it scares me that I think you'd do anything that I asked. It can't be like that."

"So, wait," he says, mind swimming. "I'm supposed to be less – what are you saying?"

"You've talked about everything that you want me to be able to do, LSE, working, all of that. But what about the things you've had to change? What about the things you're giving up?"

He can't help but laugh a little. "God, Sybil, do you realise how miserable I was before I met you? I just – I was lonely, and I worked all the time, way more even than now, and I'd come home and be alone and eat alone and sleep alone." He lets himself fall backward so that he's half laying on the bed, knees and feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. "What am I giving up, really?"

She shrugs. "Choices."

"Same as you."

"I don't know. I chose to have him. I chose to tell you. Those were choices." She lets her palms ghost over her belly.

He looks up at her for a long time. "You gave me a million ways out," he reminds her. "I didn't want them. I don't want them." He strokes a hand down her back. "I'm not going to leave you."

"Promise me, though," she says, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "Promise me that if you want to leave, you'll tell me."

He nods slowly. "Okay."

"I mean, don't just go. But I don't want you to be with me and be miserable. We can be his parents without being anything else."

His stomach lurches. "Is that what you want?" he asks softly.

She meets his gaze. "No," she murmurs. "That's not what I want." She lays down beside him. "But I can't say it back yet, Tom, I can't. Not yet."

He scoots close enough that he can rest his forehead against hers. "Okay," he says. "That's okay." And for now, it is. Tomorrow's going to be a shitstorm, and he knows deep down that she's right, that this is only going to get harder and harder, but for tonight, it really is okay.


	18. Chapter 18

The chirping of his mobile rouses him early – it takes him a long moment to realise what's going on, and Sybil's shifting beside him in bed before he can answer. Bleary-eyed, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and slouches over as he quietly says, "Hello?"

"Happy birthday, mo ghrá," the gravelly voice on the other end of the line replies. Only one cigarette-ravaged, Irish-speaking voice calls his phone on a regular basis; it's definitely his mother.

He stands and scrubs at his face, glancing back at Sybil – she's either still sleeping or faking it really well. "Thanks, Mam," he says softly, shuffling out of the bedroom, shivering as the cold air hits his bare chest.

"You're only on the front page of one paper today," she says without preamble. "That must mean things are getting better, wouldn't you think?"

His mother never has been one to bury the lead. He has to work hard to suppress a groan of frustration. It's been a rough week. The day the story appeared in the paper, with LABOUR LOVE RAT scrawled across the top of the front page, he'd spent nearly an hour in Corin's office, speaking in low tones about damage control. He has felt helpless and adrift for days, even though Sybil's been quietly ignoring all of the press, even though she'd made love with him on the day the story broke in a way that made him think that she was trying to say words with her body that she wasn't prepared to say with her lips.

He could see the way that people looked at him on the Tube. He knew what people were whispering behind his back in Westminster. He wants to shout to the heavens that he's not an arse, that he _loves_ her, and that he's ready to be a father to their son. But all he can do is sit back, stay silent, and, as Corin said, "know that the relationship is honest and that you've done nothing wrong." Easier said than done.

He grabs a blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around himself, sitting down heavily. "Yeah, I think they're getting better," he says, leaning back.

"I sent your birthday card two days ago, I don't suppose it's arrived yet," she says. He can hear clattering in the background – tea things maybe. His mother has always drunk unholy amounts of tea, cigarette ash tapped into an extra saucer beside the cup.

He clears his throat. "No, not yet. I'm sure it will soon."

"Good," she says, "good."

He sighs. "Sybil's good, Mam. The baby's good. We're all good here."

"Well, that's nice," she says, and he wants to throttle her through the phone. She's stopped making passive aggressive comments about the pregnancy and Sybil, but now she's just stopped talking about it at all. He had sent an image from the ultrasound in the post, but she'd only made the barest comment about receiving a letter from him.

He's not sure why he wants so badly for his mother to be excited about the baby – maybe because his mother has never been typical. She never asked about his relationships with women, never pushed him to settle down or marry. She had always believed – had always flat-out told him – that she felt that he was destined to "make changes in the world." He has always known the underlying message was that she wanted him to take up his father's work and continue it, and he thinks she must have realised long ago that it just wasn't going to happen. And now he'd yoked himself to the establishment, to the _aristocracy_...

"How's the weather?" he asks, words stilted. It's fine. Auntie Reen is fine, too. Work is fine. Everything's fine.

He's frustrated, so he just decides he's going to bring things up himself. She can go silent if she wants. "I felt the baby kick last night, Mam," he says.

They'd been lying in bed, each of them reading, when Sybil had let out a little surprised noise. When he'd asked what was wrong, she'd grabbed for his hand and pressed it against her belly. He'd waited for a long moment, and then there'd been distinct, quick pressure against his palm. And then once more. He'd been speechless, and she'd laughed. "Does that hurt?" he'd asked as soon as he'd been able to find his words again.

"Sometimes, a little," she'd said. "Depends on where he kicks, how he moves."

"That's the hardest it's been, though." He'd stroked the taut skin of her abdomen softly, watching intently, waiting for the baby to squirm and move again.

"Pretty much." She'd covered his hand with her own and nodded a little. "He's been moving a lot today. I think he finally wanted to say hello." She'd set her book aside and turned off the bedside lamp, snuggling against his side. He'd fallen asleep with his hands still pressed against the curve of her belly.

"Well, that's good, it's good that he's healthy," his mother says shortly.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He wants to ask why she can't be happy about having a grandchild, but he decides he doesn't want to argue on his birthday. "Yeah, it's good," he says. "It's really good. Listen, Mam, thanks for the call. I've got to get going."

As he ends the call, he feels Sybil's fingers – her completely freezing fingers – on the back of his neck. "Fuck, you're cold," he says, burrowing further into the blanket.

"Share," she says, sitting down beside him and nudging at his shoulder.

He frowns at her as she tries to peel the blanket back from him. "No, get your own blanket, I'm all warm in this one already."

"I know, that's why I want in," she says, tugging at him until he lets her slide on to his lap. "It's your birthday, you're supposed to share."

He snorts. "That is _not_ what birthdays are supposed to be about."

She just makes a _hmph_-ing noise and tucks her head against his neck. "Happy birthday," she murmurs.

He sighs and rubs his hands briskly against her arms. "Thanks."

"That was your mum?"

"Yeah," he says. "She said hello." She peers up at him sceptically. "Okay, no, she didn't."

"She'll get over it eventually." She yawns. "And by _it_ I mean the fact that I'm a horrible symbol of oppression." She pulls back just a bit. "In fact, I will bet you ten quid that she'll be totally different the minute she gets to hold him."

He shrugs. "We'll see."

They sit in companionable silence for a while, until she offers, "Dave and Lil and I are taking you out tonight." He raises an eyebrow, and she nods. "It's all Tom, all the time. Pizza Express and _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_."

"Really?"

"And we were going to get you pissed, but we all have to go to work tomorrow." She yawns again. "Your mother will come around, I promise."

He kisses the top of her head. "It's not a big deal."

"Okay," she says, crawling out of his grasp and shivering as she hurries over to the kitchen. "Pre-work birthday pancakes, coming right up."

* * *

><p>Sybil heads straight for the toilets as they make their way out of the theatre and into the cinema lobby. He shifts both of their coats in his arms and watches as Dave helps Lil shrug into hers. "Okay, confession time," Lil says, glancing over at him. "I don't think I understood half that film. You're going to have to explain it for me, Tom."<p>

He wrinkles his brow. "It's been a long time since I read the book," he says with a shrug. He'd thought the film was fantastic – moody, dark, complicated. Sybil had nodded off a few times against his shoulder, but he couldn't really blame her; she'd had a presentation at work and was clearly exhausted.

"Yes, but you work in government," Lil says, one eyebrow raised delicately.

He laughs. "I'm not a spy, Lil."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, please, Tom, we all know that you've probably got some secret occupation in Westminster. The speechwriting thing's a total front, isn't it?"

Dave smirks. "Tom would be the worst spy in the world. He's got absolutely no poker face, and he's a terrible liar."

"I am not," he replies indignantly, feeling Sybil's presence at his elbow.

"You're not what?" she asks, taking her coat from him and pulling it on.

"A terrible liar," Dave says.

She glances up at him and squints. "Yeah, I'd have to agree," she says, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "Heart on his sleeve," she murmurs in his ear. He just rolls his eyes, even as he does feel his heart start to beat faster.

"Okay, birthday boy, I'm afraid we have to run," Dave says, clapping him on the back. "Early start in the morning. Take your girlfriend and your baby home and put them to bed like a good man."

"Oh, shut up, Dave," Lil says, reaching over to give Tom a quick hug. "Happy birthday. And Sybil, I mean it about lunch next week." She hugs her, too, and Sybil seems both embarrassed and pleased.

They part ways on the pavement outside the cinema. Tom pulls Sybil close to his side as they stroll toward the tube station for the short trip home, chatting about the film. Sybil likes the old television adaptation better; Tom thinks the book is better than both. "But I like Gary Oldman."

"And the guy who plays Sherlock on the telly," Sybil says, yawning again as they wait on the platform for the train to arrive. "He was really good."

He thinks she's going to practically fall into bed when they get home, but as ever, she's full of surprises. "Come here," she says softly, smiling, as they step inside the flat. "Don't bother with the lights."

She pushes his coat off his shoulders and lets her own drop to the floor. Her palms press against the smooth fabric of his shirt as she leans up to kiss him softly on the mouth. It's warm and close in the room, and he cradles her face in his hands. "You're not too tired?" he asks quietly when they part, still stroking at her cheeks with his thumbs.

She shakes her head and takes his hand, leading him to the bedroom. He helps her pull her dress over her head – soft jumper material, the kind that makes her hair comically crackle with static as she emerges from underneath it. He sits on the edge of the bed, lets her unbutton his shirt, pressing her mouth against each bit of flesh she reveals.

And then she's unbuckling his belt, opening his trousers, and then she's on her knees and – "whoa, wait, you don't have to..." – and her mouth envelops him, warmth and suction and softness, and he's sinking his fingers into her hair and biting his lip as she eases him in and out. He has to close his eyes against the pressure and the sweep of her tongue, and before long he's tugging at her shoulders, pulling away, shaking his head, murmuring, "not like that right now, not right now."

"I want to," she says as she rises awkwardly with his help. "Don't you...?"

"I want to be inside of you," he confesses softly, sliding his palms down her arms, kissing her collarbone. "Is that okay?" She nods, kissing the top of his head, then leaning down once more to capture his mouth with hers.

They're getting to the point where these things require serious strategy and negotiation. When they're finally naked together, she rolls him on to his back so that she can sink down on him, but her belly forces her to sit up, ramrod straight, unable to get any closer. And when she moves, she winces a little with each bounce of her swollen breasts, and the idea that he's hurting her even a little bit makes him feel ill. So he tries to sit up, but that knocks her off balance, and the two of them end up tangled in a heap on the bed.

Her shoulders start shaking, and he thinks he's _really_ hurt her, until he realises that she's laughing hysterically. "This is starting to be like an engineering experiment," she gasps, covering her face in her hands. He's laughing now, too – he can only imagine how remarkably unsexy this looks, let alone how strange it feels.

But it's his birthday, and Sybil will not be swayed. "We can't just stop, it's not fair for you to have blue balls on your birthday," she says, but this also cracks her up, and it's several long moments before they're sufficiently composed to get things figured out once more. He misses being able to kiss her while they make love, but at least the only new position that they've been able to make work so far – on their sides, spooned together, his arms wrapped tight around her – lets him press his lips against her neck, run his hands over her body, stroke between her legs until she cries out.

As he catches his breath, he slides his palm over the curve of her belly – he can feel indistinct, restless movement beneath the skin. "I think – I think he can feel my heart beating faster," she breathes, reaching back to touch his hair, his cheek.

It's quite possibly the best birthday he's ever had.

* * *

><p>Work ramps up suddenly in the following week – the bailout crisis in Europe is reaching fever pitch, and dealing with questions about the EU has always been a delicate business for them. He and John sit and run numbers with Ian for what seems like hours, trying to get him to explain each nuance of the financial situation in a way that they can easily distil for the public in Corin's remarks on the floor of the Commons. He goes home for several days in a row with a pounding head, and it's a serious luxury to have Sybil there when he gets back to the flat.<p>

But Sybil too has started to flag a little, to the point that he wonders aloud one night whether it might be better for her to stop working sooner. "What, so I can sit here and do nothing at all productive?" she fairly snaps at him, before letting her head fall into her hands. "I'm sorry. I just feel so crap right now."

It goes on for several days, getting worse and worse. He has no idea what to do. She seems so completely distracted, and he feels himself starting to panic. She sleeps beside him but doesn't make any move to touch him. She hurries out to work in the morning and is nearly silent when she arrives home at night.

He decides that giving her space is the smartest thing he can do. He tries to be helpful, but she clearly doesn't want him to provide any sort of actual relief for whatever it is that's bothering her so intensely. He doesn't know if it's hormones, or if it's work – he decides it's nothing that he's done, because he's not done anything unusual, but she's quieter and quieter and more and more distant, and he starts to worry that she's going to split up with him. And then there's Greece and Italy at work, and false stories in one paper about another woman claiming to have been involved with him, stories so completely untrue that they have to sic Matthew and their lawyers on the publication, and he feels like he's coming apart at the seams.

"The story's not true," he says finally. "Really, seriously, it's not true. I've never even met her."

"I believe you," she says, raising up a hand as in surrender. "Seriously, Tom, I know you're not lying to me." But he doesn't know what to think.

He and Corin are in the Strangers' Bar close to the Commons early one afternoon when his mobile buzzes to life – a text from Sybil asking him to meet her by one of the lakes in Hyde Park. He's pretty sure he's going to vomit right there for a few moments, and he must look positively green, because Corin asks if he's all right.

He glances around to make sure they're not in earshot of any of the MPs or journos milling about the bar. "I think Sybil's going to end things with me," he murmurs, staring down at the text, trying to rearrange the words in his mind so that their meaning isn't so patently obvious.

Corin raises an eyebrow. "Why in the world would she do that?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know, things have been okay, but for the last couple of days it's like she's been on another planet. We barely talk, she doesn't want me to touch her..." He wrinkles up his face, thinking that perhaps he's revealed a bit too much.

"Maeve was like that sometimes when she was pregnant with Jack," Corin says. "One day everything would be wonderful, and then I'd be enemy number one for a while for no apparent reason." He frowns and reaches out, resting a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Maybe she's just feeling poorly. If there's no reason for her to want to leave you, why in the world would she leave?"

He stands, gathering up his things and shaking his head. "I don't know. It's just – I don't know what else it could be. I know it doesn't make any sense..." He takes a deep breath. "It had been good – it had been really good – but this week, it's just – I don't know. She's asked me to meet her somewhere. Guess I should go face my doom now, eh?"

"I think you're wrong," Corin says. "From what you've told me, I can't imagine she would want you to go."

"Just tell John that I'll help him with the edits in the morning, okay?" he says, not waiting for an answer before heading out of the bar, down the halls to the nearest exit, and hailing a cab.

* * *

><p>He sees her from a distance, sitting on a park bench near the sparkling surface of one of the duck ponds, her red coat and her dark hair shocking spots of colour against the drab wintery landscape. He stops for a moment and just looks, shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out for the millionth time why she would have changed her mind so quickly and so irrationally. It doesn't make any sense.<p>

She looks up suddenly and sees him, but she doesn't move, just sits and waits for him to amble down the path toward her. He knows that he looks terrified, but the closer he comes the more clearly he sees that she looks terrified, too. Her face is puffy and red, her eyes swollen.

He sits down beside her heavily, heart stuck in his throat, completely unable to speak. It's a long moment before she talks, swallowing hard. "I think we're going to have to go into hospital this afternoon," she says slowly, carefully, enunciating every syllable.

A ray of light bouncing off the water blinds him for a moment. "I thought – what's wrong?" he asks. His tongue feels heavy, his mouth won't work quite the way it should.

She takes a shuddering breath. "I've been waiting, but..." She shakes her head and looks up at him, meeting his eyes fully for the first time. "He hasn't moved, Tom, not for a few days. I've been waiting to feel something, and there's just been – nothing."

His brain is not catching up with her words – he's still stuck on the wild thoughts of the previous few days. "When was – when do you think you felt him last?"

"I don't know," she says. "I've been trying to remember exactly when it was, it's just hard." She sinks further into her coat. "I know he was moving a lot on Sunday when we had dinner with Mama and Papa, but I can't remember when it stopped..."

"Maybe it's not anything," he says. "Maybe it's nothing at all, maybe he's just not been as active."

The look on her face suggests otherwise. "I don't think that's what it is," she says, her voice low, as if she's been running over all of the possibilities for days, trying to grasp at a straw, and finding nothing. She reaches for his hand, holds it tightly in hers. "I'm sorry I haven't said anything until now, I just didn't want – I didn't want to worry you over nothing. But I don't think it's nothing."

He feels tears springing to his own eyes, and he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what he would say if he could make the words come. He wants to say that he thinks she's wrong, that there's got to be another explanation. And he really wants to say that she _has_ worried him, that he pays attention to things, that he has known that something was wrong with her, that she can trust him, that she should confide in him. But he cannot find the words.

"I've tried elevating my heartbeat, I've tried lying down and not doing anything else. But I can't feel him," she whispers, staring straight ahead.

A bird takes flight from the other side of the pond, its wings ruffling the tall grass. "So we should go, then," he says finally, starting to stand.

She stops him, clutches his hand tighter. "Can we just sit for a few minutes longer first?"

He nods dumbly, settling back down beside her, letting his head drop down to rest atop hers. "Okay," he says.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

He just shakes his head, watching the grass shiver in the wind, watching the water slap against the edge of the walking path.


	19. Chapter 19

_Note: First, a massive apology for the wait on this. It was a tough one to write, and I know the end of the last chapter left all of you hanging. Second, a massive, massive thank you to those of you who voted for me in the Highclere Awards - I was completely blown away by the result. I can't believe sometimes that anyone would want to bother with the stories I dream up, and to have them so incredibly well received is amazing. Thank you!_

_As a treat, because you all deserve it for waiting patiently, I'm going to post a couple of quick advance excerpts of the next chapter on my Twitter account (thelastcountess) during the wait for the next installment. Be sure to follow me to catch them, and please do let me know your thoughts on this chapter as well._

* * *

><p>Hours later, he's stumbling out of the side entrance of the Portland, half in a daze, coat thrown over a pair of scrubs he'd been given. He needs a cigarette, and he can't quite figure out where the nearest newsagent is.<p>

The last day – well, honestly, he's not really sure how many days it's been – two, maybe? He's not slept, and everything is blurring together. Anyway, the last day has been singularly the most confusing and the most terrifying of his entire thirty years on the planet. And now he just feels numb, like his feet and his hands are made of concrete.

His brain cycles through another rapid-fire rehash of all that's happened since they got in the taxi and arrived at the hospital entrance. It's as if the more he tries to stop thinking about it, the more his brain tosses back the very images and sounds he doesn't want to remember. The midwife's face as she examined the ultrasound machine, Sybil's blank expression as she swung her legs up on the hospital bed, needles from a drip piercing the soft skin on the inside of her arm. The sun had set long before the labour started in earnest, and it was nearly noon on the next day when she'd finally delivered the baby, and then over an hour more until the afterbirth followed. The way she looked and sounded as she struggled through the ordeal was something he would never, never forget, not ever, not until he was dead and buried in the ground himself.

And he just felt ... nothing. Nothing at all, like he was watching all of it on a television screen or in the cinema. The pavement is uneven under his feet, and he nearly stumbles. _Stop thinking_, he wants to scream at his own mind. _Stop showing it to me again_.

He finally spots an off-license in the distance and jams his hands into his pockets, hurrying across the street. One packet of Royals and one cigarette lighter later, and he's shuffling back toward the hospital, round back where he'd seen a bench and a bunch of stubbed-out fags littered on the pavement.

It's been a long time since he smoked – he gave it up when he'd come to England, planning on adhering to some sort of monastic academic existence at university. He fumbles a little with the lighter, sniffling, shuddering a bit in the frigid air. It feels like it could snow.

He closes his eyes as he draws the first long drag on the cigarette, feeling his lungs fill and burn slightly, relishing the sensation of the acrid smoke as he exhales. He'd called her parents after her labour was over, had sat in a corner of her hospital room alone and waited until they arrived. She'd been so exhausted that she'd fallen asleep quickly afterward, eyes glassy and limbs heavy. When her parents and her sisters had arrived, hesitating for a moment in the doorway of the room, he rose awkwardly and mumbled something about getting some coffee before heading out the door.

A shadow falls on the bench beside him as he sucks in another lungful of smoke, watching as the end of the cigarette glows and smoulders. He doesn't look over as Sybil's father sinks heavily down on the bench beside him, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back.

"Didn't know you smoked," the prime minister says, voice thick, as if he's been crying.

Tom flicks at the end of the fag, watching the ash fall and settle on the pavement. "I don't, not usually," he says. He exhales a long, curling trail of smoke. "I needed something to – I just needed something."

The prime minister makes a quiet noise of assent. "The midwife said there weren't any other complications for Sybil."

He shakes his head. "No. It took a long time, but they said that everything else was fine afterward." He stares at the shabby brick façade of the facing building. "Just a dead baby." He clenches his jaw, swallows hard, because good lord, he thinks he might start crying again, and hasn't there been enough of that already today? Robert doesn't say anything for a long time, and Tom just stares at the smoke curling from the end of the cigarette, wisping away into nothing.

Finally, Robert offers, "I'm sorry, Tom. I wanted to make sure that you knew how sorry we are. Not just for her or for us, for you, too."

"I'm sorry, too," he says shortly.

Robert sighs. "They haven't said if they've found a reason for it yet, I'm assuming."

He'd spent nearly an hour going over forms and grilling one of the doctors for information. He'd offered every small possible thing he could think of as a possible cause – even asked, red-faced, if the way they made love could possibly have hurt the baby – but nothing fits. "No. They don't know yet. They're going to do – there's going to be an autopsy. The doctor said something about the placenta maybe, I don't know. They don't know." He looks away.

"There are going to be some more unpleasant things to be dealt with before all is said and done," Robert says quietly. "I hope that you and Sybil will let us help you." Tom looks over quizzically, and Robert clarifies, "Where to bury the baby. What to do about all that. There's no reason for the two of you to have to do more than is absolutely necessary."

Tom laughs a little, mirthlessly. "You sound like you did your homework in the car on the way here."

Robert clears his throat. "The truth is that Cora lost a baby this way after Sybil was born. A little boy. Five months along. It was a long time ago."

Tom can feel his eyes widening. "Does Sybil know?"

Robert nods slowly. "I think she does. Cora's going to go and give the medical staff all the information she can, just in case there's a connection. But I doubt it. She had an accident, you see, a fall that brought on her labour, and they couldn't stop it."

"I'm sorry." He doesn't know what to say.

"It was a long time ago," Robert repeats. "But you should know that we really can help you. I know the situation is a bit different, but we can help if you'll let us."

He looks down at the remains of the cigarette, drops it on the ground, crushes it with the toe of his shoe. He fumbles with the packet again, lights another, closes his eyes as he inhales.

"I want to thank you," Robert says. "For staying with her through all of this, today and all the rest, too. Cora and I are grateful that you've been good to her."

"I'm in love with her," he replies shortly. He swallows once more. "I love her."

He nods again. "It means a great deal to us that you do. We're not upset with her about any of this, really, I think you should know that. Sybil has always been much harder on herself than anyone else. She'd be a martyr somewhere if they still did those things here, a little Dorothea Brooke. Turns out I named her after the wrong book after all." He sighs.

He disagrees – Sybil's not a martyr, he thinks, she's a person who has trouble sometimes accepting that the world around her is the way it is, but that doesn't make her some sort of _saint_ – but not for the first time, Tom feels himself strangely willing to confide in this man. He tries to imagine what his own father would say, but all he has of his father are stories and legends and a few frayed photographs and blurry memories, nothing that tells him what the real man was like. He thinks madly for a moment that he's a stranded link in a doubly broken chain – dead father, dead son. "I love her, and I'm afraid that she's going to end things now," he says. He's unmoored himself from so many people already – his mother, his family, even his country, really. If she unlinks her chain, too, where is he then?

Robert frowns. "I don't know. I really don't know." He feels the prime minister drop a heavy hand on his shoulder, patting once before standing. "I hope she doesn't do anything she'll regret."

And now, embarrassingly, he does feel wet on his face, swipes at his cheeks with his free hand. "I don't want to lose her, too. Not both of them."

Sybil's father shakes his head, rubs at his forehead. "I came out here to find you because she woke a little while ago, and she's been asking for you."

"I thought she would want to see your wife and her sisters, and I just wanted..." He sniffles again, letting his head drop. "I needed to be somewhere else just for a little bit."

Robert nods, pats him on the shoulder once more. "Come in when you're ready. Take some time."

* * *

><p>He does take some time, sitting outside for nearly half an hour more, alone, smoking until he starts to feel ill. He calls his mother, hears something that sounds a little like quiet anguish on the other end of the line when he tells her matter-of-factly that his son is dead. It's oddly satisfying to hear her express any kind of emotion at all about the baby.<p>

Sybil's mother and her sisters are all sitting on the edges of the bed when he steps back into the room, looking for all the world like a trio of protectors guarding Sybil from some sort of threatening evil. The midwife had given her something to help her sleep as soon as the delivery was finished, but it's apparently worn off somewhat; Sybil's awake, but she looks strangely sluggish, drugged. He figures that's just about right – that's how he feels, too.

She sees him in the doorway and thrusts out a hand toward him, making a soft noise. Mary's the one who looks over next and sees him hovering there. "Sorry," he says. "I just needed to take a walk."

Cora nods and rises, coming over to embrace him. "We're here to help you both," she murmurs, echoing her husband.

"Thank you," he replies, finding it difficult to meet her eyes.

Sybil's still beckoning, so he takes over at her bedside as her sisters scuttle out of the way quickly. "You smell awful," she says without preamble, wrinkling her nose at what he's sure is the overwhelming smell of smoke emanating from his clothes, his breath. "Hurts my eyes."

"Sorry," he winces. "I had to have something to calm me down."

"You can share my drip, I don't mind," she mumbles, and he nearly finds himself smiling at the doped-up expression on her face. It would be comical save the circumstances.

"They gave you more?"

"Yeah," Sybil confirms. "I don't really know what it was."

He reminds himself to ask the nurse later. "Does it help?"

She shrugs a little. "Makes everything seem far away."

He just nods, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Okay. That's good."

"Your smell hurts my eyes," she says again. Yes, she's definitely high. "You should go home and take a shower."

"You want me to go?"

She shakes her head, frustration evident in her eyes. "No, I don't mean _go_ go. I want you to go and then come back."

It's not a bad idea, really, drug-induced or not. He glances over at Cora, who's sitting in a chair a little apart from them. "Do you think I should?"

"It might be a good thing for you," she says. "Go home, clean up. You can bring some things for Sybil."

"The pillow from your side of the bed," Sybil says, and he's afraid he'll start blushing with her mother and sisters so close. "And some pyjamas and the book on the coffee table." Her eyes are drooping. She's probably not even going to remember this, he decides. "And some tea. I want some tea."

"We'll deal with that here, sweetheart," Cora says. "Tom can get the rest. If you want, that is." She addresses the last to him.

Sybil's gripping at the lapels of his coat, and he turns back to her and lets her pull him down. Her arms snake about his shoulders – he can feel the cool of her skin against his ear, so much cooler than the feverish burn of a few hours ago. "Come back, please," she whispers. "Promise?"

"Promise," he says, pressing his mouth to her cheek, feeling the sweep of her lashes against his face as she closes her eyes. He sits up and brushes her hair back from her face. "The pillow, the pyjamas, the book."

"Yes, please," she murmurs, fingers toying with one of the buttons on his coat.

He gathers up the clothes he'd been wearing when they'd arrived and his workbag and heads out, trying to avoid looking around as he strides down the hallway. "Tom?"

He turns, and it's Mary. He braces himself without even thinking.

She steps forward. "I'm sorry," she says without explanation, but her face makes it clear that she's horrified, that this is not what she expected.

"I hope so," he says dully, shaking his head as he turns and makes his way out of the building as quick as he can.

* * *

><p>He stands for a long while in the bedroom of his flat, just looking around the space, trying to decide what he's supposed to do. He thinks that in films men are supposed to erase a space of trauma, shielding their women from hurt and pain. If he were in a film, he would probably need to put away the stack of pregnancy books on the floor by the bedside table and pack up the maternity clothes she's just started to need, letting her share his clothes instead. Seeing those things would make her hurt too much, and a true, good film hero would not let her hurt.<p>

But in a film, they probably would have dealt with things differently from the start, wouldn't they? They probably would have been proactive and perfect – they would already have moved to a different, bigger flat, with room for a nursery that he would already have painted blue. He would have spent hours comically trying to assemble a cot using instructions in a language he didn't speak. She would have moved in a rocking chair from her own childhood nursery and sat in it, a dreamy look on her face, contemplating the wonder of birth and body and life. There would have been charming banter back and forth about what to name him. Pretentious names of prime ministers. Complicated, choking combinations of Irish letters. And they'd find the perfect one tucked away in a book they both liked, and they would smile together, and they would call him by name.

They'd never even gotten that far, no further anyway than "let's not name him after our fathers." They hadn't prepared anything, hadn't really started to physically acknowledge that there would soon be another human sharing their space. What better evidence was there that they were too young and too stupid and too unprepared to care for a child? He would never, ever, ever tell Sybil, but a fleeting part of him wondered if this wasn't for the better. Not that he didn't want to be a father. Not that he didn't want her to be the one to give birth to his babies. But maybe it wasn't supposed to happen quite like this.

So, in the end, there was little to put away, and he decided that she probably wouldn't want him to do it anyway. He cleans himself up, gathers their things, and locks the door silently behind him.

* * *

><p>When he returns, laden down with a couple of bags and clutching the pillow – why she wanted his pillow escapes him, and he seriously thought about bringing the one she's been sleeping with instead, but in the end he's just followed her instructions – Mary and Edith have gone. Cora is sitting beside Sybil's bed, staring down at her sleeping daughter. Robert is on the couch, sitting forward, as if ready to spring at a moment's notice.<p>

It's like the changing of the guard – her parents say they'll be back in a few hours and leave him there with her. He has no idea what to do. He can't read – can't concentrate. And left unoccupied, his mind is driving him more than a little bit mad. He did manage to scrounge up some sleeping pills in his medicine cabinet, but he's loathe to take them in hospital – is that really a place you can self-medicate? He doesn't know. What he'd really like to do is convince someone to hit him over the head with a hammer, but that seems unlikely, so he just sits in a chair at her bedside and stares, letting himself go slowly insane.

He's grateful, he thinks, that they moved them to a different room after she'd delivered the baby. They'd been in the midst of the other labour and delivery rooms – it was clear that the hospital staff had taken extra measures to keep them as set apart as possible from babies who would squall and cry out after being born, instead of mutely slipping into the world like their son, but there were only so many spaces they could be put in. He hadn't looked at him – at _it_, he thinks, and then hates himself a little bit for it. He'd been too scared to do it. Sybil had said firmly during the last hour before he'd been – born seems like the wrong word, before he'd _appeared_, maybe – that she didn't want to hold him, didn't want to see him. The midwife had tried gently to convince her otherwise, but Sybil was unmoved. And he probably should have been braver, been willing to suck it up and actually look at his son, but he didn't. There was blood, and he was a coward, and he was frightened. He feels like every decision he's made in the past day has been the wrong one, and it's worse and worse.

Sybil's fingers slowly encircle his wrist, and he looks up to see her regarding him. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly. "You look..."

"Not really," he says, shaking his head, smiling a bit sadly. "Are you okay?"

"Not really," she echoes. Her eyes are serious.

He takes her hand and plays rather mindlessly with her fingers for a while. "Will you lie down with me?" she asks.

He frowns at the drip, all tubes and wires and needles. "I don't know if I should."

"Please?" She pulls at the covers on the bed and shifts a little, wincing as she tries to make space for him.

"I don't want to touch you and hurt you."

"You won't. Please, Tom, will you?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, standing and shrugging off the hoodie he'd thrown on before leaving the flat. She blinks up at him patiently in the dim light, and she fits herself against his side carefully when he lowers himself down beside her. He tries to rearrange blankets and lines as she rubs her cheek against the soft, worn fabric of his T-shirt. "Careful," he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Just when he thinks she's sleeping again, she looks up at him. "Can I ask you something?" He just nods and waits. "Do you think we did something wrong?"

He brushes her hair back out of her face. "No. Do you?"

She looks away for a moment. "No," she says finally, and he can almost feel tension seeping out of her. "I honestly don't think we did."

"The doctor told me we might never know why."

"I know. They told me that, too."

Her chest rises and falls, slower and more and more evenly, until he realises that she's sleeping again. He doesn't sleep, or at least he thinks he doesn't, but anyway he sees the night rise into day, and he's awake when the Dowager's gray head appears in the little window in the door.

She smiles a bit sadly at him as she steps inside, and he's beyond embarrassed somehow to be in bed with her granddaughter in front of her, even if it's a hospital bed – it's just weirdly a little too intimate, maybe. He nudges Sybil awake as gently as he can, and she lets out a soft "oh" when she sees Violet standing across the room.

"Sweetheart, your father told me what happened," she says. "I know they're going to discharge you soon, and I thought you might like to come to stay at Grantham House for a little while."

"Tom too?" Sybil asks sleepily, and he realises then that she's not going to send him away.

"Tom too," her grandmother replies. "Of course. Tom too."


	20. Chapter 20

_Note: We're drawing quickly to the close here, everyone - two more to go after this. Thank you all for your wonderful feedback on the last chapter. Please let me know your thoughts on this one, too!_

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><p>Grief, Tom discovers, is an utterly exhausting thing. They leave the hospital as soon as the doctor is certain that Sybil isn't at risk for infection, and when they settle in to Grantham House, he suddenly finds himself completely exhausted and completely unable to sleep.<p>

For the first few days, Sybil barely gets out of the big, soft bed they're sleeping in at her grandmother's house. Their room is on the first floor, and getting her up the steep stairs two days after she'd delivered a baby is more than a bit challenging. Once ensconced in the spacious bedroom – the same one she used to sleep in as a child when she visited her grandparents in London, she explains – she doesn't much want to leave. She sleeps most of the time; sometimes she reads a bit or watches a little telly, but for the most part, she chooses simply to shut out the world by closing her eyes.

He envies her – well, he doesn't really envy her, of course, but he wishes he could sleep the time away like she's able to do. When he does fall asleep, out of sheer fatigue, he wakes suddenly amid horrible dreams – she keeps dying too, in his mind, and he rubs his eyes and watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest to prove to himself that she's still there. She has the benefit of the medication prescribed at the hospital, which makes her groggy and even a little confused when she's able to stay awake. Most of the time, though, she can't. He sits next to her in the bed while she sleeps, surfing through the channels on the television without really seeing them. He does realise just how many adverts feature children, families with lots of precocious kids, babies crawling about with toys and pets and mothers. He's never noticed before, but he notices now. He's glad she's sleeping.

When it comes to talking about what's happened, though, he finds that grief is not only exhausting but also mute – neither of them really says anything. They talk a little about what's happening to her body now – where she's feeling pain, how he can help, whether or not the bleeding is something that should concern them – but not about what happened then. Then is over, it seems. Maybe they'll talk about it eventually, but to what end? They can't go back. It doesn't seem like she wants to. He's sorting through some of the paperwork from the hospital one afternoon, and he finds a pamphlet about long-term birth control solutions, implants and hormones and things he doesn't really understand. He can't blame her. He won't blame her if she never, ever wants to be pregnant again.

One afternoon they're lying in bed, watching one of his old box sets of _The West Wing_, when she looks up at him and scoots closer, touching his face with her fingertips. He can feel the catch of her skin against coarse hair – he's not shaved since before she went into hospital, and his beard is starting to take over. But she doesn't seem to mind. She shifts her weight, and then her lips are soft on his, and they're kissing, unhurriedly, languidly, the kind of kisses that are simply kisses themselves, not a prelude to something else.

He reaches up and brushes his fingers against her wild, curly hair, and she sighs against his mouth, and they hold each other tightly. He still doesn't sleep.

* * *

><p>Being at Grantham House is a little like being in another world altogether. He's experienced plenty of grand houses and nice locations, but only as a brief visitor. This time, when he's a guest for a longer term, things seem so different. He reads the paper and drinks his coffee in the morning in the breakfast room, with the sun streaming in the tall windows. He works at an antique desk that Sybil's grandmother tells him came from a desperate aristocratic family fleeing the Terror in France. The cook makes him sandwiches when he's hungry. He sleeps beside Sybil in that gigantic, soft bed. The Dowager is unobtrusive, smiling softly at him when she sees him in passing, but rarely engaging him in conversation. He thinks she wants to give them space, both figuratively and literally, and he's grateful for it.<p>

He's just getting ready to go back to work when Violet reveals that she's taking a trip. "I have a dear friend who has a home in Florence, and now that her horrifying husband is finally dead, we're able to go and have a smashing time there," she explains.

Tom raises an eyebrow and sets aside his reading glasses. "So we're in charge while you're gone?"

"Don't be silly, my dear," she says, patting his shoulder affectionately before sitting down in an armchair. "Carson is always in charge. We simply live in his house."

Tom smirks and closes his book – he's got quite a bit to finish before he can start work with John on the response to the Tory tax proposal. Part of him wishes he actually had read that folder at Christmas. A larger part of him thinks that it's absolutely bonkers that he's sitting in Grantham House, working on a way to counteract the PM's plans. Could he ever have expected any of this a year ago?

"Sybil told me that you're going back to the office tomorrow," Violet says, reaching for the remote and switching on the telly. "Back to your attempts to put her father out of a job, I suppose?"

He snorts a bit as he nods. He wanted to go back sooner, but Corin had put his foot down. It seems his boss and Sybil's father have been communicating quite a bit about the situation, and Corin, to both his amusement and dismay, is taking on something of a surrogate father role for him. He respects Corin enormously, but he hasn't had a father in nearly a quarter of a century, and he doesn't really think he needs one now.

"I hate to say it, but I'm looking forward to the distraction," he admits. "I think Sybil wishes the doctor would clear her to go back earlier, too." After an episode of significant bleeding that had almost landed them back in the hospital, Sybil had been ordered to delay going back to the office for another week. She was coping with it almost as well as she coped with any order.

Violet shrugs. "Sybil needs time. Things like this don't make sense right away." She sips slowly from her teacup. "I'll leave everything you might possibly need with Carson – telephone numbers, all that. And please, if Rosamund rings, tell her I'm out of the country and that she needs to handle her own problems on her own time, will you?"

He smirks. "I can do that."

"Good." She stands and gives him a sad smile, patting his shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry, dear. The two of you are doing just fine. Just fine." She makes a soft little sighing noise and heads out of the room, her slippers barely making a sound on the expensive carpet.

* * *

><p>"I have two requests," Sybil says from the bathtub.<p>

He glances over, half his face still covered in shaving cream, and raises an eyebrow. Her dark hair is slicked back, her eyes sleepy as she lolls in the warm water. "What's that then?"

As he slides the razor against his cheek, mowing away at another strip of beard, he can feel her watching him. "I want to go somewhere to eat tonight for dinner."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Her recovery aside, there's a fresh blanket of snow on the ground outside, and it's bloody freezing. He's not looking forward to greeting the cold air with a newly shaved face, but it's work, and he can't very well go to Westminster looking like some kind of Yeti.

"I don't know," she replies. "But I'm so sick of being here, and there haven't been any more problems. It doesn't have to be a lengthy kind of thing. And we could ask Dave and Lil."

He pauses, setting down the razor. "They don't know yet, though." Nobody knows – just their families and the doctors. The hospital staff apparently received a hell of a speech from her father's security detail about privacy, and none of the papers have had anything yet. It's both comforting and a little unnerving.

"You could tell him. I don't mind if you do." The water sloshes a bit in the tub.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it again. He's not sure if he's ready to say anything to anyone about it. Dave can be a great friend, but sometimes – he's just not sure what he'll say in return. And the way he'll look when they say something, all pity and uncertainty. "I don't know," he says softly, picking up the razor again and quickly finishing up the rest. When he rinses his face, he feels a rough patch on his jaw, but he can't be bothered to go back and fix it.

Sybil's still watching him from the tub; she's slipped down so that the water plays about her shoulders and her collarbone. Her still-swollen abdomen is less noticeable this way – he wonders when she's going to stop looking pregnant. He sits down heavily on the bathmat and regards her. "If you really want to go, I can call them."

She looks a little stricken. "We're going to have to tell them eventually."

"Have you told your friends yet?"

She snorts. "Who, those girls from uni?" She shakes her head. "I told Jenny and Nic from work last week when I called in."

He's heard quite a bit about Jenny and Nic, and he wonders fleetingly why they haven't spent more time with them instead of with the glossy posse from New Year's Eve. "And that was okay?"

"No, of course it wasn't okay," she huffs, sighing. "But it's never going to be okay, Tom, never."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I know that."

"I need to get out of this house," she says, low and urgent. "I feel like a zombie. I need to walk and think and talk about something else. We don't have to go with anybody else, but I'm afraid that if it's just the two of us, we're just going to stare at each other, and the same things will be going through our heads, and we won't be able to even speak about anything else."

He can't think of anything to say to that – it's true. Their conversations have been difficult since they left the Portland, mainly because neither of them wants to talk about what's happened, but it's the only thing either of them can think about.

"I'll call Dave," he says, grunting a little as he stands and heads back out into the bedroom. He dresses quickly and mechanically – slacks, shirt, tie, jumper, jacket – and tries to tame his hair. He can hear the water starting to drain from the bathtub as he finishes tying his shoes.

She's wrapped in one of the gigantic towels with the Grantham crest embroidered on it – really, a step too far, he thinks – when she appears in the doorway, shivering lightly. "You don't have to if you don't want to," she murmurs.

He shakes his head and steps toward her, kissing her temple, feeling the soft squish of her wet hair against his cheek. "I want to. I promise." He heads toward the door. "I'm away, then – I'll ring you in a few hours." He pauses. "Hang on – what was the second thing?"

"Oh," she says, as if she's forgotten, too. "I want a drink. I'd like to be completely shitfaced, to be honest, but I think I'm not supposed to mix some of the stuff I'm taking with alcohol."

"Dinner and a drink."

"One drink will probably have me completely under the table. It has been months, after all."

He nods, smiling a little. "I'll see you this evening."

* * *

><p>Dave takes the news just about the way Tom imagined he would – there's a long, long pause on the other end of the line. Tom's huddled in a corner at Westminster, close to one of the restaurants – he can hear the clatter of silverware from behind him as he waits for Dave's reply. They talk briefly, and they set a time to meet, and he leaves Dave to process things. He imagines the phone conversation Dave and Lil are probably having as he trudges back to Corin's office. Not good. Not good at all.<p>

Sybil's dressed and ready to go by the time he gets back to Grantham House. Carson calls for a taxi, and Tom is careful with her as they slide inside. She gives him a look that warns him off a bit – "I can do it myself" has become her oft-repeated mantra – but she lets him settle against her as they ride along. He tells her about work, she tells him about the book she's working through, another part of one of the textbooks for the LSE. "I e-mailed the program director today," she explains. "I definitely want to start in the autumn."

"I definitely think you should," he says, and he wonders exactly where they'll be by then.

They meet Dave and Lil at a little gastropub (he hates the word "gastropub," but that is what it is) just across the river from Dave's flat. As he pays the cab driver, he glances over at his friends and thinks that they look even worse than he and Sybil do – probably he should have given them more time to process things. They're going to be panicked all evening about saying the right things, and that's going to be all sorts of fun.

"I'm so sorry," Lil says right away.

Sybil shakes her head. "Yes. It's horrible. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me. Is it the worst thing that's ever happened to you?" This she directs at him, and he nods his head. "And neither of us wants to talk about it, so let's not, okay?"

Dave glances over at him with raised eyebrows, and he shrugs a bit. "Okay, then," Dave replies. "No talking about it. I'll tap into my conversation reserves then."

"Good," Sybil says, lacing her fingers through Tom's as they step inside.

The conversation topics at dinner go as follows: the uprising in Syria, what happened to Dave's iPhone when he tried to update the operating system, Kate Middleton's clothes, whether or not Britain really owns the Falklands, whether or not Britain really owns Northern Ireland (yes, he's desperate enough that he's even willing to go _there_), whether or not Gary Oldman will win an Oscar, and the new Muppet movie. The bill comes, and he pays over Dave's protests – Dave and Lil are doing them an enormous favour, whether they realise it or not – and the four of them set out in the gently falling snow toward the river. He has to admit that Sybil was right – it was really nice to get out of the house, have dinner, and talk to some people about something other than _that_.

What happens next, though, ruins everything. They're chatting a bit, lingering on the corner, when out of nowhere a camera flash nearly blinds him. And then another, and another, and he's looking at Sybil, bewildered, and she's asking why the photographer would even be all the way out here. "We're in Battersea, for Christ's sake," she shouts, holding up a hand to shield her eyes.

The paparazzi they've encountered before have been, it seems, semi-professional – with contacts at newspapers, state-of-the-art camera equipment, and a clear sense of the boundaries they can push and still be within the bounds of the PCC code. But this man's camera looks a little less expensive, and instead of just continuing to photograph them until they can manoeuvre out of his range, he starts talking back to her. "You look great, Lady Sybil," he shouts. "When are we going to hear about due dates? What about names?"

"What the _fuck_," Dave says, trying to get in between them and the camera.

"You need to stop, right now," he says, pulling Sybil close to his side.

"Come on, darling, just one photo for a man who wants to feed his family, eh?" the paparazzo persists. "From one parent to another, yeah?"

And that does it. Something inside him snaps. He's acting more than thinking as his fist goes flying. There's a sickening cracking noise as he makes contact with the photographer's nose, and the camera falls to the ground. His hand throbs, his eyes widening as he watches the man sink to his knees, clutching his face. "You've broken my fucking camera!" he shouts, apparently more worried about the equipment than his face.

He swallows hard and looks back at Sybil, who just touches his arm and sighs. "I'll call the police," Dave offers. "You didn't do anything someone else wouldn't have done in your situation."

"Fuck," he mutters. "Oh, holy fuck." He's not sure he hasn't broken his hand. He's not sure when he last hit someone. Has he _ever_ hit someone like that?

Dave puts his mobile back in his pocket and steers them over to the stoop of a nearby building. "Sit here. Lil's keeping the other guy busy. Damn, Tommy, I've never seen you do anything like that."

He seriously thinks he's going to cry. He sits down on the icy step and lets his head fall in between his knees, and he can feel Sybil beside him, one arm draped over his back, her chin on his shoulder. How is he going to explain this? They're going to have to tell the police, and it's going to be in the papers, and they're going to have to tell everyone. Jesus _Christ_.

"It's okay," Sybil says.

"It's _not_ okay." He glances down at the split skin on his knuckles. "I am not a person who hits people." He feels tears springing to his eyes. Seriously, he thinks, is there any way that his life could get worse? What's next? Sybil leaves him, he loses his job, he has to move back in with his mother...

The police arrive fairly quickly and take statements – Sybil takes one of them aside and, he assumes, explains what's been happening. The officer glances back at him sympathetically and nods a little at Sybil. But the photographer claims that he wants to press charges anyway, so off they go up the road to the police station, and he's booked and fingerprinted and sat in a chair to wait. Sybil sends Dave and Lil home after the police have taken their full statements, promising to ring them if they need anything.

He's spared the indignity of sitting in a cell, at least – "we're not exactly worried that you're a risk, since you called the police on yourselves," one of the officers says dryly. They're interviewing the photographer when his wife bursts into the building twenty minutes later, speaking quickly and demanding to see her husband.

She's still shouting at an officer when Matthew and Mary slip through the door behind her, dressed in jeans and jumpers, glasses fogged up from the sudden blast of heat after the cold temperatures outside. He's not sure he's ever seen either of them look so ... _normal_, not even during Christmas when they were all staying in the same house. Matthew slips his glasses off and wipes them on his jumper as Mary hurries over and hugs Sybil.

"I called Matthew," Sybil explains softly. "I figured we needed help, I'm sorry if that's not what I should have done."

"No, no," he says. His head is starting to ache. "It's fine. It's good, they'll know what to do." He can't quite bring himself to look at Mary, though.

"This is ridiculous," Matthew mutters as he pulls a chair close to them. "I don't blame you at all for socking the bastard."

"But if he presses assault charges, he'll be in the right," Tom sighs. "I hit him."

"It was provoked," Mary says firmly, and he has to raise an eyebrow at her sudden defence of him. "I know we've had our differences, Tom, but really, if what Sybil's saying is true..."

"It is true," Sybil says quietly, squeezing his uninjured hand. "He was asking about the baby, trying to rile me up, I think. I mean, he can't have known, but still."

"It's still not okay," her sister replies. "It's not. We're going to take care of this, aren't we?"

Matthew nods. "Just sit tight."

But before the two of them can say anything, an officer appears before them with the photographer and his wife, who has stopped shouting and looks actually fairly chagrined. "I know it's not something you're probably keen to go on about, but I thought you might tell them why you were upset by what he said," the officer says, looking down at Tom. "She wanted to hear it from you."

"Sybil—" He finds that he actually can't say it.

"Our baby died a little over a week ago," Sybil says quickly, as if she's afraid she won't be able to get it out if she doesn't say it fast. "He was stillborn. They don't know why he died. I know I still look like I'm pregnant, but that's because I was pretty far along. That's why Tom was upset." He looks over, and she's staring the man down. He can't figure out why he's still underestimating her bravery.

"You had no right to say those things to either of them, even if you couldn't have known," Mary says, her voice deep and threatening.

"Mary, don't," Matthew says quietly as the officer holds up a hand.

The wife's chin lifts. "We're not pressing charges."

"Are you apologising?" Mary presses.

"Yes," she replies.

Mary rolls her eyes. "Not you. Him."

The photographer, who is holding an ice pack to his swollen nose, mumbles, "Yes."

"But we want a hundred pounds for the camera," the wife insists.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me," Mary cries.

Matthew puts a hand on her arm, fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, and hands the woman a hundred-pound note. "I'll pay you back for that," Tom says, and Matthew nods in return.

"Okay, then, I think we're finished here," the officer says. "You'll be released without charges, Mr Branson. As soon as we finish the paperwork, you're free to go."

"Wait," Mary interrupts, standing. "I want you to delete the pictures from your camera."

"It's broken," the photographer protests.

"The media card's not broken," Mary says. "If those pictures show up anywhere, you'll have me to answer to."

"Let's maybe not lodge anymore threats here tonight," Matthew mumbles, rubbing a hand between Mary's shoulders, clearly trying to calm her down. "Everything's settled. Let's get you both back to Grantham House."

His head is pounding by the time they get back – mercifully Grantham House is and always will be paparazzi-free. ("The only time I'm truly thankful for the Americans next door," Violet sniffed one evening after dinner.) Sybil cleans and bandages his hand, and he can't seem to stop apologising.

"I don't blame you," she says softly, cradling his face in her hands and kissing his forehead gently. "Truly I don't. It was a little caveman, I'll admit, but I'd want to punch someone who said something hurtful to you, too."

He blinks. "It's never going to get easier, is it?"

"Probably not. But maybe it'll get better. I won't want to cry every time I see a nappie advert, and you won't want to lash out every time someone says something to me." She shrugs. "Part of me wishes they'd publish something, just so that everyone would know and we'd have it over with."

The throbbing in his hand and his head keep him awake all night, and for the first time in a few days, he can tell that Sybil has trouble sleeping through the night, too.

* * *

><p>It takes only a few hours for Sybil's wish to come true, except that the photos of Tom angrily advancing on the photographer accompany a story that only talks about his arrest, not about the reasons for his ire or his release.<p>

"I feel like I've been apologising to you on a loop for months," he groans into his mobile the next morning, the papers spread out on the dining room table in front of him.

Corin sighs audibly. "We're going to do something about this."

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"I've been on the phone with Grantham," Corin explains. "Enough is enough."

After he ends the call, he goes upstairs to ask Sybil if she knows what he's talking about. She bites her lip. "Mary says Papa's going to say something to the press. I told her that that was okay."

"Seriously? You didn't think to ask me first?"

"Corin's going to be there, too," she says defensively. "He's vetted everything. It's not going to damage your career."

"That's not what I mean," he says, pacing the floor. "I just don't like – haven't we had _enough_ of our lives in the media? Do we really want to become poster children for stillbirth, too?"

Sybil just stares at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment. "I can't believe you think I'd want that to happen."

"I don't know _what_ to think," he says. "I'm just sick of having my life all laid out in public again – I feel like I'm back in fucking Belfast. This is everything I ran away from years ago, you know that."

"I told you," she says, her voice shaking a bit. "I told you the same day I told you I was pregnant. This is what comes with me. This is what you give up when you're around me. So, what, suddenly it's not okay anymore? There's no baby, and so you don't want to have to deal with it anymore?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off by the beeping of her mobile. "Text from Mary," she says softly, reaching for the remote and switching on the telly.

Sybil's father is on the screen, standing with Corin outside Number 10. He spots Mary among a group gathered near them. "I called you here today because I wanted to say something to all of you, something stronger than just a statement. I wanted to be able to look into your eyes when I say it," Robert begins, his face a mask of barely-controlled anger. "I have declined thus far to comment on my youngest daughter's relationship with one of Mr MacLeod's staffers, largely because both of them are private citizens and because, frankly, it's none of anyone's business." He pauses and glances over at Corin. "But circumstances have brought me to a point where I feel I must speak, and Mr MacLeod – my right honourable friend – agrees. My daughter and her partner have been hounded by photographers for months now. They have already made a case under the regulations of the PCC code that they have, in fact, been harassed by these photographers."

The prime minister takes a breath. "This morning, a story in the papers claimed that last night, my daughter's partner was arrested for assaulting a photographer outside a restaurant in Battersea and released without charges. That is true. What they did not reveal is the reason he did so. Ten days ago, my daughter gave birth to a stillborn son. For reasons you will surely be able to understand, she did not wish to make this public. The photographer in question was harassing my daughter with questions about her pregnancy, questions that highly offended both her and her partner. Neither Mr MacLeod nor I condone violence, but I believe it is important for the public to realise that Mr Branson's actions were, indeed, provoked. When the photographer was informed of the reality of the situation, he declined to press charges."

_But took money from us anyway,_ he thinks. Tom sits down on the edge of the bed, his heart beating fast. "Jesus," he whispers.

"One of the most important parts of a functioning democratic society is a free press," Grantham continues. "Neither Mr MacLeod nor I wish to see that damaged in any way, shape, or form. But the treatment my daughter and her partner have received at the hands of freelance photographers has convinced me that we must strive to clarify and strengthen our harassment laws in this country." He can't quite believe Robert got Corin to sign off on that bit. "Private citizens must be allowed to conduct their daily lives without threat of harassment from others. Both my daughter and her partner have been exposed to intrusions into their private lives from a young age, and in both cases, it was due to the actions and the choices of their fathers, not because of any fault of their own. I can only hope that by making this statement the two of them will no longer be followed or targeted by photographers, and neither will any other private citizen. The people of Britain must be afforded a reasonable measure of privacy in each of their daily lives. My daughter and her partner should not be exceptions to this rule. They have suffered enough already."

Robert and Corin both decline to answer questions and step away from the podium, followed by members of both of their staffs. He sees Frannie and Ian among the group, and he's sure that if he took the time, he could identify several others, too. Before she heads inside, Mary turns and gives a pointed look to the camera. He wonders if this is how she conducts an apology.

He stands suddenly, and Sybil lets out a heavy breath. "I need some air," he blurts.

"Tom, we should –"

"No," he says, and then more gently, "no. I just need some air. Okay?"

She looks at him for a long moment. "Okay."

"Okay."

The air outside is cold, and the slush from the pavement feels like it could seep into his shoes at any moment, but it's good, sharp, a little painful. "Okay," he murmurs once more.


	21. Chapter 21

_Note: One more chapter, and then an epilogue, and then we're done! I'm sort of in mourning already. Thanks so much for your regular feedback throughout this story, and I hope to hear your thoughts on these final chapters!_

* * *

><p>He shuffles back into Grantham House a few hours later, chilled to the bone, the cuffs of his trousers frozen. He nods a little at Sybil and kisses her on the cheek, and when they go to bed that night, she snuggles close to his side.<p>

* * *

><p>Sybil's ready to go back to work by the middle of February, and it's clear that it's time to leave her grandmother's house. He's going to miss the cook and the privacy and the mattress, but it's not their space, and it's time to go.<p>

He drops their bags on the floor of his flat as they step into the living room and stretches a bit. His back has been playing up on him a bit – too much stress, probably, and then everything seems to hurt. Sybil switches on the light in the kitchen and starts putting away the groceries they picked up on the way home. She'll make dinner, and he'll wash the dishes, and they'll watch _QI _before bed, and then they'll be very careful not to bump into each other as they put on their pyjamas and slide beneath the duvet. It's exactly the same, but they're only two now, not two and a half, certainly not three.

They act normal – if you can call the patterns they've developed over the past few months normal, really – but he can feel the tension growing tighter and tighter every day. There are unanswered questions around every corner – where are they going to live? Here? What about her flat? And they're going to continue living together – they're both committed? How does she really feel about them? How much of this is done out of ease or a sense of obligation rather than genuine desire?

The string snaps forcefully one afternoon a week later, when Sybil comes home from work with a strange expression on her face. She opens her mouth and quickly closes it again when he asks if everything's okay.

"Don't get upset," she says, and his stomach drops.

He blinks. "Well, that pretty much guarantees I will be upset, doesn't it?"

She looks at him warily. "I'm going to Africa."

His eyebrows shoot up. "What? When?"

"When the group from work goes," she replies, sitting down on and letting the strap of her handbag slip off her shoulder. "In three weeks."

"How..." He shakes his head. "Do you have all of the papers and the vaccines and everything?"

"Yes," she says. "I was there a year ago, everything's still up to date."

"And what about Dr Woodward, he okayed you to go?"

"I spoke to him on the phone today," she explains. She stands and shrugs off her coat, stepping into the kitchen. He hears the cork pop on a bottle of wine. "He says that as long as I feel able and I'm not having any issues, he doesn't see a problem with it. He wants me to come in a few days before I leave, just for a check up, but as long as that's okay..." Her voice trails off.

Tom would like to wring the man's neck – he sees a problem with it. He sees loads of problems with it. She's just had a baby, for Christ's sake – even if it didn't live. She's still recovering, and even if she seems like she's holding it together, she's really devastated, surely. He's really devastated. If she weren't, he's not sure how he's supposed to feel.

But he can't say any of that. Who is he to say any of that? He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "You're sure you feel well enough to go?" he asks softly as she returns, clutching two glasses of chardonnay. He accepts one from her and sips slowly.

"Yes," she says, taking a long drink. She sits down beside him on the sofa. "I'm fine, Tom. I feel just fine."

"I mean – what I mean is that I want to be sure that you feel up to it," he explains awkwardly.

"I'm fine," she repeats. "As well as can be expected, anyway. It's only for two weeks. And I need to feel valuable again. The work there is really important."

He knows about the famine; they've talked about it loads of times. "It is important, I don't mean to suggest that." He sips again. "I just – I don't know."

"It's nice that you're concerned." Nice? Surely "nice" is not the word she really means. It's so nice to meet you. It's nice that you, the father of my child, is concerned about my well-being post death of said child? His mind spins. She curls up beside him, scooting close enough that she can lean against his shoulder. "But I'm fine. I promise that I will absolutely tell you if I'm not fine."

That's great, he thinks, just great. He's not fine. He's _not_ fine. He downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and reaches for the remote, switching on the telly and surfing about until he finds the news. Unrest in Syria, financial crisis in Greece, yes, good, distracting. She falls asleep against his side, and he has to help her to bed an hour later.

* * *

><p>They don't really talk about Africa again, save vague statements about when she leaves and what she needs to do, practically until she's ready to leave. He offers to go to the airport with her, but she shrugs, saying that she's supposed to meet the group at the offices, that they've got pre-arranged transportation and that she should really stick with them.<p>

So they say their goodbyes outside his flat, where he's loaded her luggage in the boot of the cab and has his hand resting on the top of the open door. "I'm trying to remember," she's saying, ticking off various essential items. She's got her passport, her folder of important papers, her tablets, her office-issued mobile. "And it's only three hours difference, so I'll be able to ring you after you get home from work."

"Good," he says weakly. The cabbie is starting to look impatient, so he reaches inside the taxi for her, holding her close, feeling the grip of her hands on his biceps. "Please be careful," he rasps. "Please. Promise me."

She nods, pulling back so that she can kiss him, hard and quick but not fleeting. "I promise," she whispers, kissing him again before sliding back into the cab. The door shuts, and he lifts his hand as the car drives off.

* * *

><p>"Tom?"<p>

"Tom?"

He looks up to find Corin standing over him, concern fairly etched into the lines of his face. "Are you okay?" his boss asks, frowning.

He blinks a little and sits back – he wasn't sleeping. He was thinking, he supposes, spacing out. He's always been prone to that, but sometimes lately it feels like his mind just skips into a tangential groove and rides it out without asking. He's not even sure what he was thinking about – it's a total blank.

"My office," Corin says quietly, and Tom stands, still a little bewildered, and shuffles along behind Corin. He closes the door before sitting down.

Corin sighs. "I think you need to take some time off."

That sounds beyond horrible. What would he do, sit alone in his flat and stare at the wall, missing Sybil and thinking about things he shouldn't think about? It's not like he can go work in a coffee shop anymore – everyone looks at him like they know, and he figures that they really _do _know. "I really don't think that's a good idea," he says, scrubbing at his face.

"I think it's necessary. I'm not really asking so much as telling," Corin says. "You're not yourself."

He sighs heavily and crosses his arms over his chest. "I need to be busy."

"You're not really busy," Corin replies. "I can tell that you're trying, but it's clear that you need some time to get your focus back. No one blames you for that."

He feels a bit like he's slipping under water. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, sniffling a bit.

"We'll cover for you for a couple of weeks. But your job will be here when you get back. We won't let John take over." Corin offers him a wry smile. "We're going to need everyone's best work when the election is called. And that includes you."

"Right." He knows that Corin's been trying to look out for his best interests, but really, how could Corin even possibly know what those were? Who is he to say that he's not giving his best now? Christ. He wants to scream.

He packs up his bag and heads out without speaking to anyone, jumps on the bus and sits alone on the long seat in the back, watching the buildings fly by the window. He trudges into his flat and sits down. Sybil's supposed to call later, but sometimes she's too busy and misses a day. He eats some leftover lo mein, takes a fifteen minute nap, and when she doesn't call, he takes a sleeping pill – it's the only way he can really manage it lately – and climbs into bed, sprawling in the middle of the mattress.

He feels a little like he's going to burst out of his skin. The next day, he makes two trips outside – one to the newsagent to get a paper, and one to Tesco to buy a bottle of whiskey. He drinks himself stupid in front of a marathon of old episodes of _Spaced_, and by the end of the night, he's sitting on the floor in the living room, duvet wrapped around his shoulders, trying desperately not to cry. He drunkenly decides that he needs to go somewhere, he needs to talk about things to someone. And those people should be his family, shouldn't they?

After three tries, he manages to correctly type his credit card number into the easyJet website and books a ticket to Belfast.

* * *

><p>Pat Branson is a short woman, with blond hair that she cuts herself over the kitchen sink and a face free of make-up. Tom remembers her as a slightly disinterested parent, willing to give him a wide berth in many cases, except where his politics or his future were concerned. He remembers sometimes being surprised that she would let him go running about the neighbourhood with other kids or stay out at night without a curfew, but mostly that was because the other mothers commented about it. They were shocked that she'd let her boy go running around like a hooligan, what with his father and him her only family left.<p>

Those things didn't seem to scare her, though. Other things did. She'd been nearly apoplectic when he'd decided to go to university in England, and she'd not spoken to him for a month when he'd joined Labour. But since then she'd developed a grudging respect for Corin, and she believed that Tom truly was a part of a progressive historical narrative that would eventually include a free, united Ireland. Those were the things that kept her awake at night; those were the legacies she worried about.

But he does remember her as a more traditional mother, too, not just as the political radical who lived in the same house as he did. He remembers the endless days in the hospital, the surgeries and the recoveries, remembers her stroking his hair as he'd cried out in pain after one particularly gruelling procedure. He remembers her pride when she saw his school reports, the way her face would light up when she'd hear his teachers tell her what a brilliant writer her son was becoming.

When he arrives at the city airport, she's standing there waiting for him, and it's that second mother he remembers who is there. She sighs sadly when she sees him – he can only imagine how he must look – and hugs him tightly. "It's good you're here," she says, her voice low and gruff. "We'll get you taken care of. Reen's already got the boxty on the griddle."

He has to smile a little at that, but he can't quite say anything yet. His mam seems to understand. She, wee as she is, hoists his case off the carousel and leads him to the car park, where her ancient, rusting Land Rover is waiting. After three tries, the old thing starts, and they head home.

* * *

><p>He spends a whole day in bed, letting his mother and his aunt – mostly his aunt, he has always been the child that Reenie and Den never had, after all – fuss over him. Grief isn't only silent, it's also a magnet for illness, it turns out. A head cold comes on with a vengeance, and they ply him with soup and grog and paracetamol. He lays in the small bed of his childhood and adolescence and frowns at the achingly familiar walls and windows. Even better, though – when he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead.<p>

The third morning back on Irish soil, he shuffles out into the kitchen in his pyjamas, yawning, hair standing up all over the back of his head, and is greeted with a smiling Auntie Reen and a piping hot cup of coffee. "You look much better, ma ghrá," she says with a smile, touching his stubbly cheek with a soft hand. "Your mam went out to do the shop, but she'll be back in a wee bit."

"Thanks, Auntie Reen," he says, slurping at the hot liquid, trying not to burn his tongue.

She sits down across from him at the kitchen table and smiles gently. Reenie – Aileen, really, it is – is his mother's only sister, and she shares the dark hair and light eyes that he knows from pictures of his grandmother. Sometimes it's hard for him to believe that gentle and sweet Auntie Reen and his mother came from the same womb. In a fit of ire when he was a teenager, he said as much, and the flickering in Reen's eyes told him that maybe there's more beneath the placid surface than he knows.

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "We're so glad you decided to come. It's a good thing, Tommy, to get away in times like this." She smiles a bit sadly. "I'm just disappointed that you didn't get to bring your lovely girl along to meet us."

He knows he's said it already, but he replies, "She's in Africa. Kenya. Couldn't really make the trip." They've barely even talked since he came to Ireland – the one time he was awake to answer his phone, she had to go quickly. He shrugs a bit.

Reen nods. "That would be quite the flight, wouldn't it?"

He makes a noise of acknowledgement, takes another long drink. "You'd like her, Reen. I know Mam's probably said all kinds of shite about the whole thing, but I really think you would."

"Your mam hasn't," she replies. "No more than that she was terribly worried about the whole thing. That's her way, you know that." Her heart-shaped face stretches into another smile. "And I know I'd like her. If you like her, what could there possibly be not to like?"

He laughs. "Her money. Her title. The fact that her father's a Tory, and the prime minister, and Corin's political opponent."

Reen shrugs. "You know I don't like to think much about those things."

The door creaks as it opens, and his mother steps inside with an overflowing paper sack of groceries. "One more in the car," she says as she sets the bag down. He starts to stand, but Reen places a hand on his forearm before heading out the back door.

His mother methodically unpacks the items and places them on shelves, in cupboards, and in the refrigerator. "We're going to have a stew for supper," she says, coughing.

"Sounds good," he says, draining the coffee cup. He sits back and watches her work. Reen comes in with the last of the bags, and then leaves just as quickly.

His mam turns to him with a small smile, leaning against the counter. "I've got the night shift this evening."

"Fun," he says.

She nods. "Why was Reen so quick to get away?"

He frowns, shakes his head. "Dunno. We were just talking." And for the first time this visit, he has the sudden, old urge to needle his mother. "About Sybil, mostly."

"Ah," she says, nodding, looking down at the ground.

"About Kenya. About how I think Reen would like her."

"Reen likes everybody," his mother says with a wry smile.

He exhales. "About how you don't like her."

She tilts her head and looks at him. "I've never met her, Tommy," she says. "I can't dislike someone I've never met."

He hmphs a bit. "Seems like you can to me."

"Ah, Christ." His mother fairly collapses into Reenie's vacated chair. "It's just not what I would have chosen for you, Tom. Being in love with someone is hard enough – being married to someone is hard enough – without all of the extra business between the two of you."

"Do you mean her father or the baby?" he asks, feeling his throat tighten.

"I mean her father," she says, searching his face. "I mean the politics and the history and the press. I don't mean your son."

It's the first time they've spoken directly about the baby since he arrived. "Your grandson."

"Oh, Tommy," she says, and it makes him want to scream. "Yes. My grandson." He doesn't say anything. He's afraid he'll cry, and he hasn't cried in front of her in years.

"Did my grandson have a name?" his mother asks finally.

He looks up, and there are tears shining in her eyes. "No," he says. "No, he didn't have a name."

"Where's he buried?"

He sniffs a little. "On the Grantham estate in Yorkshire. Close to her grandfather, they said."

"You haven't been there to see?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Dead bodies aren't souls anymore. He isn't there anymore than Da's in his grave."

She shrugs. "I know that's what we've always said, and it is what I believe. But some people take comfort from it, maybe you will."

He shakes his head again. "I don't think so. I don't know."

They sit in silence again, until Pat sighs, "So tell me about your Lady Sybil, then."

* * *

><p>He sets out the tools from the garage meticulously on the pavement beside the car and hoists himself down on the creeper to slide under the vehicle. He had practically rebuilt the old thing from scratch when he was a teenager. He'd had books, he'd had engines, and he'd had room for practically nothing else in his young life – well, save learning to drink excessively and chase after women who were wholly out of his league.<p>

He reaches for a wrench and gets down to business – the Land Rover has been sadly neglected, and he's got a lot of work to do to get it back to pristine condition. He works methodically, letting the rhythm of the work soothe him, going through the necessary motions without having to concentrate. Sometimes he thinks he really should have been a mechanic.

As the oil drains out into the pan beside him, he waits for a while and lets his mind drift back to his conversation with his mother. He'd tried to explain Sybil to her, tried to depict for her as best he could the reasons that he thought the relationship could work.

"But why?" she'd asked, and he'd looked up at her, confused. "Why do you love her?"

This had taken him aback. He hadn't thought about it – well, at least not since the one and only time he'd ever said the words to Sybil, and she'd suggested that his feelings were misplaced.

He'd stared down at his empty coffee cup and took a deep breath. "I don't know, Mam. How do you know something like that? I just do. She's kind, and she's smart, and she's beautiful, and..." He'd let his voice trail off, shaking his head.

"I loved your father because he was kind to me, but I loved him more because we had common goals, and I knew that we could work together to do good things." He'd almost laughed at that – good things like bombings, he supposed – but he'd just watched her and frowned.

"She and I do have common goals. She's not really political, she's more ... I don't know, more like a humanitarian, almost. And I want her to succeed, and I think she wants me to succeed."

"Succeed at ousting her father from his job," his mother had sniffed. "That's some family loyalty."

"It's not like that," he'd said quietly. "I love her because she's strong, and ... maybe a little because I think she loves me, too."

"You think?"

He'd wished he could take that back immediately. "She hasn't told me – well, not in so many words. She's scared about how fast things have been changing. And her last relationship didn't end well. Her boyfriend took money from her."

He thought he'd seen his mother wince a little at that. "You've gotten yourself into something, here, Tommy."

"Just – just meet her first before you decide. I can't exactly say what it is about her. But she just is – there's just something." He'd taken a deep breath. "I don't like being away from her. I don't like sleeping without her, and I don't like that she's not here. I just miss her. I don't know, Mam."

His mother had stood and sighed a bit, touching the top of his head. "Be careful," she'd murmured. "I don't want you to hurt anymore than you already do."

He'd wanted to say that he could feel the hurt coming already, that every day Sybil was in Africa and he was at his mother's house he could feel her slipping further and further from him. And if their hold on each other was that weak, how were they going to hold fast ever, at all?

The stream of oil trickles down to dripping. He blinks and sets to work once more, replacing and tightening the drain plug, carefully changing the filter. He's rolling out from under the car, wiping his hands on a towel, before he hears his mobile ringing from its perch on a shelf just inside the garage.

"Hi," Sybil's voice greets him, but he can tell immediately, just from that single syllable, that something's not right.

He steels himself. "Hi," he replies. "Is everything okay?"

And then he's pretty sure he can hear her sobbing on the other end of the connection. He imagines that he can feel his arms physically aching – that's the romantic thing, the thing he should be feeling, the longing to hold her and comfort her. It's not all in his imagination. "Sybil," he says. "Love, what's the matter?"

The story tumbles out of her. She's been working at a refugee camp all day, trying to help mothers with very young children. A baby died in her arms shortly after noon. She doesn't really need to say anything else.

"Oh, Christ," he says softly, sitting down on the cold concrete floor of the garage and leaning his head against one of the workbenches. "Oh, darling."

She's crying harder and harder, but she's still trying to talk, too. "I couldn't get to the phone until now, but all I wanted was you. You were the only one who would really understand."

He can't even imagine. "I do. I think I do."

"I _know_ you do," she says, sucking in a heavy breath. "I should never have come here."

He shakes his head even though he knows she can't see him. "Don't say that."

"I just want you," she says, and his heart stretches in his chest. "I love you, and I miss you, and I need to come home to you."

He closes his eyes and presses his hand against his face – he knows this isn't how this should happen, that it shouldn't be about comfort and need, but he can't bring himself to care. "Are you sure you can?"

"Yes," she says. "I can't stay here. I can't do it. I'm going to be on the first flight to London that I can get."

He's suddenly aware of his surroundings. "Ah. One small problem..."

* * *

><p>She drops her bags and throws her arms around him when she reaches him in the airport twenty-four hours later. He can almost feel tension seeping out of her muscles as he holds her. "It's okay now," he murmurs against her temple. "You're okay now."<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

_Note: Okay, everyone, here it is: the final regular chapter of "both alike in dignity." It's taken me a while to finish this, and I'm still reluctant to let them go. But there will be an epilogue posted soon. Thank you all so much for your comments over the course of this story, and please, even if you've not reviewed before, please let me know what you think of this one. You have no idea how much each response means to me!_

* * *

><p>They're sitting at the kitchen table when his mother comes home from work. He stands quickly, glancing nervously between the two women. Sybil rises a bit awkwardly and smiles.<p>

"Mam, this is Sybil," he says. "Sybil –"

His mother sticks out a hand. "Pat Branson. Pat's fine."

"Okay," Sybil says. "It's nice to meet you, Pat."

His mother gives a wry smile. "Love, if I believed that, I'd be a far more foolish woman than I already am."

Sybil fidgets nervously – it doesn't help that she literally looks smaller, dressed in one of his jumpers and a pair of pyjama pants. She'd asked for a bath straight away, and he'd started putting the clothes from her suitcase in the laundry. "I'm sorry not to have given more notice," she says.

"Oh, don't worry about that," his mother replies, setting down her handbag and shrugging off her coat. "Tommy let me know last night. He told me what happened." She shakes her head. "You two have had more than your fair share lately, haven't you?"

Sybil smiles a little. "I suppose we have."

"Mm," his mother responds, nodding as she heads out of the kitchen.

"Mam," he says, following behind her. "We're going to go up to Antrim tomorrow in the afternoon, up to the Causeway. It's alright that we borrow the car?" He feels like a teenager.

She nods again, glancing back at Sybil, and replies that it's fine – but does so, pointedly, in Irish. He looks back at Sybil before responding in kind, watches one of Sybil's eyebrows quirk upward.

"Secret business?" she asks as he returns to her.

"No. I have no idea why she did that." He reaches for her hand on the table, playing with her fingers.

"I do," Sybil says. "To make a point. I'm an outsider."

He frowns. "Sybil..."

"No, no," she says, grasping his hand more firmly in hers. "She's your mother, and she loves you, and she's afraid I'm going to hurt you." She shrugs. "She's honest about it. I can't fault her for that."

He just makes a frustrated noise, letting his head drop down to rest on their joined hands, and he feels her fingers sifting through his hair gently.

* * *

><p>He sits on the edge of his bed and watches her undress, swapping his jumper for an oversized T-shirt. Her stomach is flatter, he notices – maybe a little wobbly still, but she wouldn't be mistaken for a pregnant woman anymore two months on. She catches his eye, and he smiles a little bashfully. She doesn't say anything.<p>

His childhood bed is a twin that barely accommodates him, let alone both of them, so he piles up blankets on the floor beside the bed and settles down, letting her take the bed. She lets one arm dangle down and traces her fingers along his arm. "Sleep," he says, bringing her hand up to his lips and pressing a kiss to her palm.

When he wakes up, she's pressed against his side on the floor, using his shoulder as a pillow. He sighs and pulls her closer.

* * *

><p>She stands atop one of the basalt columns of Giant's Causeway, her hair whirling about like crazy in the blustery winds. She wraps her arms tightly about herself, as if trying to shield herself from the wind. He shoves his hands in his pocket and ducks his head as he hops from column to column toward her, ending up on the one beside her, about a foot and a half below hers.<p>

She turns and sees him and wraps her arm about his shoulders, so that he can lean his head against her torso. She looks down at him and smiles. He squints back up at her and tries to smile, but her hair whips him in the face. She laughs.

"It's..." she says. There's more, but he can't hear it over the wind.

"What?"

She laughs again and leans down closer to his ear. "It's beautiful here!"

"Oh, yes, definitely," he shouts back. "It's better in the summertime, though."

"What?"

"It's—" He stops and sighs, tugging on her hand to lead her toward a different spot.

They clamber over the rugged landscape for a while until the rain that's been threatening starts to fall, first in spitting bursts and then in a gentle, steady rhythm. Sybil shrieks a little, and he shucks off his jacket, holding it over both of their heads as they dash toward the car.

They have supper at a little pub down the coast, a shabby place with a roaring fire and a wolfhound lolling beside the hearth. Sybil closes her eyes as she takes a long drink of Bulmers. He tucks into a massive hamburger and smiles up at her when he realises that she's watching him. "The food's good here," she says, snuggling down further into the jumper he'd given her to help her warm up after the chilling rain.

He nods. "I have a rule that the—" Here he pauses to make sure no one's in earshot. "— that the shittier the pub, the better the food."

She laughs. "I think that's a good rule."

"You like the cider?"

"I do." She smiles. "I still want a shot of Jameson."

"You sound like a tourist," he jokes, rolling his eyes.

"I _am_ a tourist," she says. "And you're my tour guide, so I'd like some Jameson, please."

He sits back. "Well, the first rule of Irish whiskey is that Jameson is only for tourists. We can do better than that for you, I think. You're sort of honorary Irish now, after all. Mother of an Irish child and all."

She smiles faintly, looking down. "If that's the case," she replies, "I'd like something for the locals."

He orders them each a shot of Black Bush and laughs at the wince she makes after downing the whiskey. He knocks his back quickly and sits back in his chair, feeling the pleasant warmth course through him. "Don't like it?"

"No, it's good," Sybil says, reaching for her cider, and he laughs again. "Now I'm really Irish, right?"

"That's all it is, right there," he jokes.

She sits back, hands curled about her pint glass, and looks around a bit. The light from the fire glints against her hair and her skin – she is lovely. "Can I ask you a question?" he says after a long silence.

"Yes," she replies, but her voice is a bit wary.

"When we get back to London, do you still want to live with me?" he says, quickly, softly. She hesitates, and he begins to nervously fill the space with words. "I mean, it's not like there was much of a choice when you moved in before, and I wanted to make sure. I want to make sure of lots of things, really, and I—"

"I miss you when I'm not with you," she interrupts, her voice quiet but measured. She shrugs. "I like sleeping beside you. And you're easy to live with. So I just – are those the wrong reasons, do you think?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I don't know, really. They don't sound bad. They sound like the way I feel." He lets out a breath with a huff. "And besides, who bloody knows what the right reasons are, anyway? How many people are in love with somebody because they _should _be?"

He can't quite decipher the look on her face. "I thought about a lot of things when I was in Kenya," she says softly. "It was good – I don't mean this to sound bad, but it was good that I was away from you and us and everything for a while. I could think more clearly." She pauses for a moment as the dog stirs beside the hearth. "I just had a lot of time to think."

"What did you think about?" he asks, feeling his mouth go dry.

She smiles a bit sadly. "The baby. The two of us. The future. All of those good, uncomplicated things."

"Ah, yes," he says. "I have to admit that I've been thinking about all of those things quite a lot here, too."

"Listen." She leans in close, fingers tracing the drops of condensation on her cider glass. She meets his gaze. "I think I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yes." She takes a deep breath. "I want a year."

His heart starts pounding, and he hears a muted, rushing sound, like all the air has gone out of the room. "What do you—" he begins, but then he stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair. The dog makes a whining noise. "I can't do this right here, I can't say the things I need to in a fucking _pub_."

"Tom—"

He shakes his head. "No." He fumbles for his wallet, tossing down a few notes, grabbing their coats with one hand and her arm with another. "Just—"

He doesn't say anything else, just hurries them out of the pub and into the dark night, still pounding and pelting with rain. He wraps her coat quickly around her and bundles her into the Land Rover, where the pounding rain against the vehicle echoes and rattles, like they're on the inside of a tin can. His hair is soaked again just from the run to the car, and he runs his hands through it swiftly, shaking out drops all over the interior. He can't breathe. He starts the engine, throws it into gear, and drives, just drives, until there are no buildings and no lights and nothing but them in the car, insulated by the rain and the darkness.

When he looks over at her, she's wide-eyed. "Tom," she begins again.

"Please," he says, turning to her and holding up his hands in front of him. "I just need to – I can't wait a year for you. I can't break my heart over you and then wait a whole year and then start all over again. I can't do it, Sybil. I think it would _kill_ me."

"I didn't mean that," she says, reaching out to touch his forearm. "Seriously, I didn't mean that."

"Well, then what did you mean?" he asks, and he's afraid he's going to start crying. At least his face is already wet, he thinks.

She shakes her head again. "I mean I want to try us, try this, and see after a year. I want you to promise me that you won't leave me for a year, and I won't leave you."

He feels a little dumbfounded. "A year. And then you'll go after a year? How is that better?"

She makes a frustrated noise. "Would you _listen_? I want to try, and if we're happy a year from now, then we should stay together for another year. And then another year after that. And until we don't want to anymore." She exhales loudly. "But we have to promise that neither of us is going to leave before then."

"I'm not going to leave you," he mutters.

She tilts her head and looks at him, reaching out and pushing the hair off his forehead. "Then it's an easy promise, isn't it?"

He swallows a little and looks at her, at the openness of her face and the touch of fear in her eyes. "I love you," he says. "I love you so much that it scares me." He closes his eyes and lets his head drop a little. He hears his mother's voice in his head for a fleeting second – why do you love her Tom, why do you? – and wrinkles up his forehead, frustrated.

He feels her hands cupping his jaw, and then her lips are on his, a light kiss, just for a moment and then gone. "I love you, too," she says. "I think I have for a while now."

He wants to hold her, but there's just not enough room. In frustration, he climbs awkwardly over the seat into the back of the Defender, urging her to follow him. She nearly clocks him in the face with her elbow as she rolls gracelessly after him, but they manage to right themselves, and then she's in his arms.

She presses her face against his neck, and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his nose in her hair. "Why a year?" he murmurs.

She burrows closer. "I don't know." She pulls back just far enough that he can see her face, shadowed in the darkness of the car. "That's not true. I just – people say they're going to be together forever all the time, and I just can't – it doesn't feel right to say that." She fidgets, rubbing at her eye. "Forever is such a long time, and I'm just out of uni, and I barely feel like an adult at all sometimes. Maybe it'll be forever, I don't know. But I know I can promise a year at a time and mean it."

He strokes her hair, letting his fingers knot up in the curls. "Okay," he says. "I promise that I will stay with you for the next year, and I won't leave you. I promise."

She raises up on her knees and looks down at him, her hair falling all round them like a curtain. "I promise that, too."

"And then next year I'm supposed to ask you again?"

"Mm-hm." She touches his face again and bends down to kiss him, and suddenly it's more than kissing, and they're practically rolling on the floor of the Defender, and he's trying very hard not to think about all of the rubbish that's probably all around and under them. But her mouth is so soft, and she feels so wonderful.

He's hovering over her, trembling a little, and the rain is hammering against the roof of the vehicle, and she's looking up at him in wonder. "There's one other thing," she says softly.

Drowsy-eyed, he leans down and mouths the soft flesh behind her ear. "What's that?"

She scoots up a bit, so that she's propped on her elbows. "I don't know if I ever want to have another baby. Maybe not ever. I mean that." He nods slowly, and she continues, "So if that's a deal-breaker – if one of these days you're going to want a baby, and you won't stay with me unless we can have one, that may not ever happen."

He looks down at her, sighing softly. "I just want you, Sybil," he says. "I don't care about all that. I don't blame you for not wanting another one."

Her eyes are bright. "It's just too much even to think about."

"We won't think about it, then," he says. "Promise. We just won't. It won't be a question, not unless you want it to be."

"So say we stay together next year, and the year after that, and then suddenly it's fifteen years from now," she says, playing with the buttons on his shirt. "And everyone else has loads of children, and we don't have a family and you feel like we've missed out."

He hesitates. "I don't know," he replies finally. "Right now it wouldn't bother me. But I'm not going to go and leave you because I want a baby and you won't have another one." He shakes his head. "You're the mother of my child, even if he's not alive, and that's that. Right now, for me right now, that's that."

She nods, but she looks unconvinced. "I love you," he says again, his whisper sounding sharp as the air leaves his lips. "I do. I just want to be with you. There will always be reasons not to be, and there will always be things we don't agree on. But..." He shakes his head. "I was never with you just because you were pregnant. I was with you because you were pregnant and because I liked you, and then because I loved you. It wasn't because of the baby. And I won't—"

He can't speak anymore, can't find the words – he sits up and exhales heavily, then lays back down beside her. He feels her scoot closer to him, press her face against his shoulder, lace her fingers through his. And eventually, they fall asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the rain and the rise and fall of their own breaths.

When they wake, it's early, early in the morning, the pale white sun rising against the sea and the green spring grass. He squints a little in the light, feels his muscles protest when he rises to peer out over the fields beyond the car. He feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to see her watching him sleepily.

"Let's go home," she says, smiling softly, and their first year begins.


	23. Epilogue

_Note: This is it, everyone - the epilogue. You have no idea how much it's breaking my heart to let this little fictional universe go, but I'm afraid it's time! I want to thank so many of you for your support and your comments over the weeks that I've been writing this story - knowing that others were enjoying the story helped motivate me to finish it more than you know. If you've not stopped in and commented yet, I'd love to hear from you as the story is coming to a close as well. It means a great deal to know that people are reading!_

_I am planning one more story for _Downton Abbey_ right now - look for a six-parter called "first" to be published in the next few weeks. Thanks again - and a Happy Easter and Happy Passover to those celebrating today!_

* * *

><p>He's deeply sleeping, dreaming absurd things about missing book deadlines and flights, when the little footsteps shuffle through his bedroom door. He registers the sliver of light that cuts through the darkness first, groaning a bit and rolling over. But he can't ignore the small hand that reaches up and pats at his arm, first softly and then harder.<p>

"Mags?" he says gruffly, fumbling on the bedside table for his glasses. He switches on the lamp and finds his daughter standing beside the bed, pyjamas rumpled and lower lip trembling.

"Da, I want Mummy," she asserts, shifting from one little foot to the other. He frowns – he's certain he put socks on her before he put her to bed. It's too cold not to have done.

He sighs as one fat tear slips down her cheek. "Ah, come here, a mhuirnín," he mutters, reaching down and scooping her up with one arm, snuggling her in beside him, rubbing her toes to warm them.

"_Mummy_," she demands.

"You talked to Mummy after dinner, remember?" he says, brushing her dark curls with his fingers. "Remember?" She wriggles a little in his grasp, grunting. "Remember what she told you?"

Maggie shakes her head vigorously, and he can't help but smile. "Two sleeps, remember? You have to sleep tonight, and then you have to sleep tomorrow night, and then Mummy will be home."

This type of solid logic is not appeasing a two year old in the wee hours, apparently, so he just sighs and arranges the covers around her, letting her cry and burrow against his shoulder until she starts yawning and then finally, finally falls asleep again, a heavy warm weight against his chest.

He's yawning by now, and he's barely got his glasses on the night table and the lamp switched off before he's asleep again, too.

* * *

><p><em>The first year was not the most difficult one, but it certainly wasn't the easiest. He imagined from the start that this was going to be a struggle, trying to grieve and build a relationship at the same time. And the election dates loomed closer and closer – they danced together at Mary and Matthew's wedding, looking like quite the happy clan, and then a week later the election was called and it was back to opposite sides.<em>

_But all that – well, nothing went quite as planned there, either. One day, he was working with Corin on plans for the expected contest, and the next, Grantham was resigning and handing over power to John Bates. The whole of Westminster was in shock – he remembers quite clearly calling Sybil from work that day, and hearing her equally shocked and confused voice on the other end of the line. Things started to make sense when her mother abruptly flew to New York. Things made even more sense when a newspaper printed a photo of Sybil's father embracing a member of his staff. Three weeks later he found himself the speechwriter to the newly-minted Prime Minister MacLeod._

_He remembers living in fear that year that the breakdown of Sybil's parents' marriage would send her back into her shell once more, far away, out where he could not reach her. But it didn't. They'd learned to rely on each other, and she'd cried on his shoulder more than a few times as her family fractured. But she'd refused to let their problems steer her off course, and she'd started at the LSE in the autumn as she'd planned for months. He worked, she studied, and that was the first year._

* * *

><p>He makes pancakes in the morning, cutting them into Maggie-sized bites and sprinkling them with powdered sugar and strawberries, watching her eyes grow larger and larger as the powder falls to the plate like snow. They're his eyes, too, stuck right in the middle of her mother's face, hair, lips, cheeks, everything. "No denying this little one, Tommy," his mother had said as she'd watched her granddaughter's eyes blink open for the first time.<p>

He spreads out a couple of papers on the table while Maggie pokes at the pancakes, playing with her food more than eating it, as usual. "Eat your breakfast, sweets," he says, peering over his coffee cup at her.

She sighs dramatically – she's seen Sybil do it, and now she's mimicking like crazy – and uses her plastic fork to spear bits of food, guiding them steadily to her mouth. When she's done, he picks her up, brushes her off, and sets her down on the floor in the living room to play. He watches her stack blocks expertly, slowly, stacking them high until the tower bends and tumbles to the ground all around her. She shrieks and laughs – Sybil's told him more than once that they should probably be concerned that Maggie enjoys destruction so much. He always counters that she's stacking the blocks higher than the books say she should be able to right now anyway, so it's just that she's a mad genius. Sybil's so far been unconvinced.

He sits on the couch and half reads, half watches her for a while. Eventually she gets bored playing by herself and clambers up on the couch beside him, bothering him until he switches on the telly and starts the same cartoon DVD that they've watched over and over again for the past few weeks. A little dog scampers around a farm with his little animal friends, and Maggie wriggles in delight.

He's got a deadline in two weeks – he really should be writing, but normally he's got the house to himself during the day. And he's been having trouble – he can't deny that. The last book came so easily, like he was just a channel for the words, but this one just wasn't working. He doesn't know why. But he can't really hole up in his study now and think about it, not while he's in charge of a child who, at this age, sways and toddles about the house like a happy miniature drunk. (Or, depending on the moment, a very angry miniature drunk.) It's cold outside, but the sun's shining across the floor, and the radiator's rolling out a pleasant warmth. Soon enough both of them are dozing, cartoon animals still romping about on the screen.

* * *

><p><em>The second year is a bit blurry – most of it just rolled along from the previous year, but he worked so much harder than he ever had before after Corin was elected. He remembers coming home to their flat – the one they'd gotten together after some months of shuffling back and forth between their old places – and just collapsing into bed beside her, letting her curl her warm body around his.<em>

_But there are moments from the last part of that year that are seared into his mind. In the autumn, she finished her graduate work, and he looked on proudly with her parents – one on either side of him – as she accepted her diploma. She clung tightly to his hand as the four of them went to dinner afterward, watching her parents warily. Cora and Robert separated formally shortly afterward._

_They were all together again soon enough, though, when Mary and Matthew's first child was born – a son, Stephen, another earl for the line. He remembers watching Sybil warily as Matthew handed her the baby, watching the way she looked uneasily at the bundle in her arms, watching the brightness of her eyes as she told Matthew how beautiful the baby was. He knows that he must have held Stephen that night, too, but he can't remember that – only Sybil._

_When Stephen was baptised at Downton a few weeks later, just before Christmas and with Sybil as one of his godparents, the two of them went out alone one night to the churchyard. It's the only time he's ever visited that particular grave._

* * *

><p>Bundling up Maggie in her coat and mittens and hats takes ages longer than it should – the wee thing squirms and darts and evades him at every turn. "We're going to Granny Violet's house," he reminds her, exasperated. "You like Granny Violet. This should not be a problem." She continues to behave abominably until he – shamefully – scolds that perhaps Mummy will stay away longer if she doesn't cooperate. <em>Terrible Parenting with Tom Branson<em> – clearly that's the book he _should_ be writing.

Violet's driver is there waiting when he parks the car in front of Grantham House. Since he and Sybil bought their own, Violet has reluctantly stopped sending her driver to come pick them up – but she still makes him wait to act as valet once they arrive. Tom hands over the keys with a nod, reaching into the back of the car to free his wailing daughter from her car seat. It's clearly going to be one of those nights.

To his surprise, it's Cora who opens the door, not Carson. "What are you doing here?" Tom exclaims, immediately regretting the words. "Is Edith here, too?"

"And hello to you, too," Cora says with a smile, reaching out for Maggie, who climbs a bit hesitantly into her grandmother's arms. "No, Edith couldn't make this trip. She sends her love, though. Hello there, my little darling."

Tom drops the diaper bag and his keys on a chair in the drawing room as they head inside. "She's been impossible all day," he warns. "We're all grouchy without Sybil, apparently."

Cora gives him a small smile as Violet stands shakily. Her recovery has been impressive, but some things are still difficult. She leans even more heavily on her stick these days than she used to. "I'm so glad you could come, dear," she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I had a feeling you'd want out of the house."

"You thought right," he says. "She's been a piece of work today."

"She's a Crawley," Violet sighs. "She can't really help it, I'm afraid."

* * *

><p><em>The third year is India – the long flights, the smells, the colours, the rough sheets under his back. Sybil had stayed on with UNICEF after finishing up at the LSE, but it wasn't long before the World Health Organization had come calling with an impressive offer. He still remembers the fear on her face when she told him that the job was in New Delhi. He remembers thinking that they'd had a good, long run, but that was surely it – there was surely no way they could stay together with half the world between them.<em>

_But Sybil had been adamant that she wanted to try – that she loved him, and he was the most important thing to her, and if he would just let her explore this chance, they could make things work. He'd agreed to try – how could he not? It had been a long time since he'd been able to imagine living without her._

_So he'd somehow found time in his schedule to fly to India three times that autumn to see her, even with Corin's regular schedule and a state visit to South Africa also on the calendar. He remembers the heat and the noise and the crowded streets – the beautiful, crumbling temples and the pristine white monuments. He remembers her cramped little flat, remembers making love with her in the tiny bed pushed against one wall._

_He also remembers, every time he flew home, wondering if that was the last time he'd ever see her. He had never been less optimistic about the coming spring than he'd been that year._

* * *

><p>"So is this permanent?" he murmurs in Violet's direction after Cora takes Maggie out of the room to change her. He's seen his mother-in-law so rarely over the past few years – she spends almost all of her time in New York and Bermuda these days. They'd taken Maggie to visit her on the island the previous summer, and he'd built castles with his daughter in the sand. He knows that the challenges of motherhood have been made even more acute for Sybil by her own mother's absence.<p>

Violet shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine, my dear." She sips at her wine; he notes that her hand is shaking a bit. "She's nominally here to make an appearance at a charity function tomorrow. She's still a countess, after all." She sits back in her chair. "Take no offence at all at this, Tom, but years ago I never could have imagined that you'd be a more reliable dinner invitation than my daughter-in-law."

He laughs a little against his own wine glass. "Absolutely none taken, your ladyship."

She smirks at the use of her title. "When's Sybil coming home?"

"Her flight lands sometime tomorrow night," he says. When Violet raises an eyebrow, he rolls his eyes and amends, "Seven forty-three, if it's on time."

She nods knowingly. "And how has the single parenthood been treating you?"

"Ah," he says. "Not really helping the writer's block, I'm afraid."

"I can imagine not. Active girl, your daughter."

"Probably shouldn't surprise anyone. Sybil's told me what a hellion she was growing up on the estate."

Violet smiles fondly. "A grubby little girl with hair braided down her back and a stray animal and a book tucked under each arm."

"Sounds about right," he says. He feels his heart tug a little. Oh, he has missed her, so much more this time even than before Maggie. "I'd expect nothing less from her daughter."

"You've got an interesting decade or two ahead of you," she says, patting his hand.

He nods. "And you've been feeling well? Good report from last Thursday?"

She sighs. "Who knows what those ridiculous doctors are saying half the time? I'm rather convinced that one of them was recruited from _Casualty_. He looks far too well groomed to be an actual physician."

"Not really what I asked, you know."

He gets a _harrumph_ before an actual answer. "Same as usual. Some prescriptions tweaked, some blood drawn, some more dietary restrictions." She waves a hand dismissively. "I'll live until I die, my dear. That's the long and the short of it."

"Hopefully the long of it."

She gives him a sad smile. "You know, some days I certainly hope that you're right."

* * *

><p><em>If the third year was India, the fourth was Denmark – and change. There was a long, tearful telephone call from Delhi in February, replete with confessions about Sybil's own unhappiness at being so far away. He had known for a long time that she hates failure more than anything, and she read her inability to adjust effortlessly to a new life on a new continent far away from her home, her family, and him as a failure indeed, no matter what he said. <em>

_He was secretly pleased, but that feeling lasted exactly as long as it took for her to explain that UNICEF was willing to have her back – but only for a job in Copenhagen. At least the flights were shorter. But he missed the everyday and the mundane with her so much that it physically hurt. He was ill over and over that year, with upset stomachs and pulled muscles and head colds and aches and pains, and he's sure it was psychosomatic as much as anything else._

_He vividly remembers the night that he sat straight up in bed in Denmark, looking down on her as she slept beside him, skin glowing in the light filtered through the curtains. He had decided then and there that he couldn't do it anymore – couldn't be half here and half at home. He'd nudged her awake, urging her beneath him, murmuring that he was going to stay with her, that he wasn't going back._

_Corin had been less than understanding – Tom was abandoning the project, the ideals, the possibilities – but eventually he was able to overcome his resentment of Tom's departure. In fact, it was Corin who started the next phase of his career, recommending that the _Guardian_ should hire Tom to write a column about a minor revival of tensions in Ireland. And one column turned into several, and then things grew from there, in a little flat with a laptop in the bustling Danish capital._

* * *

><p>After dinner, Cora's sitting on the floor, prompting Maggie to answer questions – something that never seems to go well. Maggie's precocious and adorable, like all two-year-olds should be, but she's not so keen on performance on command. "Can you tell me where your mama is, Maggie? Do you know what it's called?"<p>

His daughter studiously ignores her grandmother for a while, rummaging around with some old toys that Violet keeps in the house for her great-grandchildren. "Mags," he says softly, reaching down to ruffle her curls. "You can tell Gran Cora where Mummy is, can't you?"

"Africa," Maggie mumbles, fat little fingers struggling to force a circular block through the square hole of a small toy box.

"That's right," Cora says, beaming. "And when's she coming home?"

Maggie shakes her head, turning suddenly and clinging to his leg, burying her face against his trousers. "Sore subject," he jokes weakly, stooping down to scoop Maggie up in his arms. "One more sleep, right, love? That's all, just one more."

But Maggie is clearly feeling even more insolent than earlier and starts to answer him in Irish. He sighs heavily – that's what he gets for giving his mother extended Skype time on Saturday afternoons. "English," he urges, but she's clearly had enough, and when he glances over at Violet, he sees that her eyes are drooping, too. Time for a swift exit, he thinks, even if Cora seems extremely reluctant to let her granddaughter go.

"I'll have Sybil call you when she's back in the country," Tom promises, once again warring with Maggie to fit her arms in her coat. She's fairly screaming by now, and it makes him want to shout right back at her. He just grits his teeth instead.

"I may be back in New York by then," Cora says, trying to time her words in between Maggie's cries. "But we'll try. I was so glad I could at least see the two of you."

"Sorry she's not in better form," he replies, wincing at a particularly shrill scream. He says his goodbyes quickly and packs her away into the back of the car, praying for a quick trip back to Woking.

* * *

><p><em>In the fifth year, they broke their contract. But not the way he always feared they might – there were suitcases and tears and key swaps, but each time they were packing and crying and moving together, not apart.<em>

_He thought about asking her to marry him in March. He'd just turned thirty-four, and Sybil was getting closer to thirty, and if she were ever going to be willing to make a permanent commitment to him, it seemed reasonable that it might have been then. But then her parents had another catastrophic argument, one that reverberated across the sea all the way to their flat in Copenhagen, and Sybil began railing against traditional institutions and expectations. The time had suddenly seemed less than opportune._

_But then Sybil's job was relocated once more, back to London this time, and it only seemed logical that they buy a place together instead of renting this time. They found a cottage in Surrey that was close enough for her to take the train in and rural enough that he could write in relative peace. And then, blindsiding him completely, two months after they move back, she told him that she thought she might want to be pregnant again._

_This had set off a series of conversations and fights and long nights without sleep. It wasn't that he didn't want to be a father again – he was more experienced with actual children by then, having spent plenty of time with Matthew and Mary's two. He was even a godfather to baby Alice. But the thought of having to watch Sybil give birth to a dead child again, or having to watch Sybil die trying, drove him absolutely mad. He knew, for certain, that if they lost another child, they'd stand a good chance of losing each other, too._

_Sybil was more optimistic about the situation – he wasn't sure why; he wasn't honestly even sure what had made her suddenly broody again in the first place – and he couldn't deny her. If he were ever to have a family, it would be with her. If he were ever to be a father again, his child would have her as a mother. Of that much he was sure. So he asked for one thing in return: that she marry him first. Maybe that way, he had reasoned, it would be more difficult for them to drift apart from each other, unmoored and unharboured, if the worst happened again. He'd been so sure she'd say no – after her parents' marriage dramas, plus her own earlier pronouncements against the entire institution – but she didn't._

_Their wedding was a quiet affair at the registry office nearest their house that November, with just Dave and Lil – by now married themselves – as witnesses. They shared a bottle of wine to celebrate. And by February, Sybil was expecting a baby once more._

* * *

><p>They get to Heathrow the next night far earlier than they really needed to. Maggie had been difficult to corral after she'd realised that her mum would be home by bedtime, and if he was honest, he'd been more than a little anxious himself. They sat in one of the standard-issue airport chairs close to the bag claim. Maggie's kept busy with a video on his phone, but he's practically jumping out of his seat with anticipation each time another throng of passengers emerges from the inner sanctums of the airport.<p>

When they get close to her arrival time – all the monitors have consistently noted that the plane is indeed on time – he stands and gathers up Maggie in his arms. Her little fists grab at the lapels of his jacket, and he rests his cheek against her hair. "Mummy's going to come through that door," he says softly, delighting in the sounds of rapture that his daughter makes in response. An elderly woman next to them smiles knowingly at them. Maggie twists her little fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He sees her first – finds the dark crown of her head bobbing amid a throng of exhausted people coming through the passageway – and he feels like his own heart's going to explode. It's only been a week, but they haven't been apart this long since before Maggie was born, not even when he'd done the book tour over the summer. "Look," he says, adjusting his daughter in his arms so he can point. "Look, there she is."

Maggie starts wriggling frenetically, her little rump bouncing against his arm, shouting "Mum-Mum-Mummy!" louder even than he'd thought she was capable. He sees recognition dawn on Sybil's face, watches her tired eyes and mouth break out into a grin, and she starts rushing toward them, jostling a few fellow travellers on the way. Maggie nearly launches out of his arms, reaching out for her mother.

"Hi!" Sybil says breathlessly, letting Maggie tackle her a bit, hugging her tightly and closing her eyes. "Oh, I've missed you two." She opens her eyes and smiles at him, stepping closer and letting him envelop both of them in a hug. "You have no idea how much."

"Maybe a little," he says wryly, leaning in to kiss her softly. "Just a little."

* * *

><p><em>The sixth year – the first year, for those who started charting their relationship post-marriage, as if those years pre-vows were just practice – was Maggie. All of the years after had been Maggie, really, but that was the year that he'd watched Sybil swell and grow again with a baby, so different than the last time, but so much the same. Other things had happened – the book contract, poor Aunt Reenie and the heart attack back home, Mary winning her father's old seat in the Commons – but nothing, nothing eclipsed his wife and his daughter.<em>

_He remembers holding his breath for a good part of the year, from the day when Sybil told him that she was pregnant (and, with a twinkle in her eye, asked if he was prepared to stay for another year) to the day that Maggie emerged, squalling and crimson, into the world. He doesn't exactly remember why Sybil chose Margaret for the name, but he liked the way it sounded – Margaret Crawley Branson. He remembers watching Sybil's face as the baby's cry echoed through the delivery room and feeling like something small had been lifted from his shoulders. Not their son – he'd never be gone from them. But something._

_She'd been almost like a kitten when she was born, small, with dark hair and tiny features, little fingers that curled around one of his as she slept against his chest. The other echoes in the day hadn't escaped him – they never escaped him – but now she was here, and it wasn't tragic, but good, and somehow the horror of the first time made the second one one that much sweeter._

* * *

><p>Sybil fairly collapses on their bed after they tuck Maggie in – it had been a job to get Maggie to detach from Sybil after so many days away, but he could see that Sybil was practically asleep on her feet already. He chuckles a little as he eases off her shoes, urging her to sit up so that he can pull her shirt over her head.<p>

"You're much more cooperative than your daughter," he muses, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She reaches up and twines her arms about his neck, rubbing her nose against his cheek, seeking his mouth with her own. "I missed you so much," she says when they part, letting her body fall back against the bed again.

He lays down beside her, reaching up and stroking her hair. "I didn't really miss you that much," he says lightly, propping himself up on his elbow.

One of her eyes opens sceptically. "Oh, really?"

He makes a non-committal noise and rolls to his stomach, pressing his cheek to the duvet.

She snorts. "I'm assuming the writing issues totally evaporated with a clinically insane two-year-old going mad in the house?"

"Clearly that's the solution to writer's block."

"Really?"

He laughs. "No, not really. I didn't write a single bloody word the entire time you were gone. I learned a lot about children's television, and I went to the zoo twice, but no writing to speak of."

She frowns and scoots closer, tangling her limbs with his. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "We arranged this months ago. I knew it was coming. It wasn't like I resented taking care of her this week."

"I know that." She kisses his collarbone. "I'm just sorry you're stumped right now, that's all."

He grunts a bit and wraps his arms around her, rolling to his back, letting her rest on top of him. "I'm just happy you're here again. I hate sleeping without you."

"I know," she says, kissing him gently. "I thought about you a lot."

"Oh, did you now?" He raises an eyebrow wolfishly, and she laughs.

"Maybe." She gasps as he suddenly rolls her beneath him, and it turns out she' s not really that tired after all.

* * *

><p><em>The seventh year taught him precisely how difficult parenthood really is. He was immensely happy to have a child – he didn't think he could love anyone so much – but good lord, she was a lot of work. He was closing in on forty and starting to feel his age, and now the never-sleeping and the always-worrying made him feel even older.<em>

_They worked out a routine fairly quickly, at least – the UNICEF offices had a crèche that they could use. They'd floated the idea of Maggie just staying at home with Tom while he wrote, but he quickly learned that wasn't the most productive of ideas. And besides that, the book he was working on that year wasn't exactly the lightest and most carefree of works – it was a long meditation on the effects of terrorism on children, mostly comprised of interviews with others, but concluding with a long and difficult piece of his own about his father and his own experience. It had been a bestseller – he knew that every time one of his books sold, it was probably because people knew he was the tragic husband of the former prime minister's tragic daughter with their tragic story, but there wasn't really any way around that._

_They'd taken Maggie to Ireland for the first time shortly before the book was released; his mam had visited them several times after her birth, but this was the first time his daughter was stepping foot on Irish soil. It had made him more emotional than he'd thought it would, watching Sybil dipping Maggie's feet in the chilly sea on the Antrim coast._

_And then shortly after they'd gotten home, it had been Violet – the stroke had come on with no warning at all, and she'd been in a care facility for weeks afterward. He'd never had a grandparent before, not really, and he'd surprised even himself with the level of worry he felt about the Dowager. But Sybil's family really was _their_ family by that point, and when Violet had made her triumphant return to Grantham House, they'd all breathed a sigh of relief. He was a Crawley now, he supposed. No turning back from that._

* * *

><p>When Sybil's finally asleep beside him, sated and sighing against his shoulder, he thinks about that first night in his bed at the old flat in Shepherds Bush, the first night they'd made love, the first night they'd slept in the same bed, the first night they'd made a baby together.<p>

He thinks that he's probably living, to some extent, the best-case scenario he could have dreamed up that night and in the weeks that followed. He's committed and settled, he loves his wife, his wife loves him, they have a wonderful (if complicated) child, and they have good jobs and a good house and enough money to keep them secure for a long time. But they're not just resting on those laurels – they're making an effort to effect changes in their world, to make other people's lives better, too.

It's not as if it's a wholly ideal world, though – it's no Utopia. People he loves are dying. Sybil's family is still a fractured and tension-filled mess. He's a frustrated and often impatient parent, when he knows that he should be measured and kind and consistent. He's always certain that his writing could be better and more accomplished. But when he thinks back to that first year with her, to the constant feeling of walking a tightrope, to the paralysing grief after the baby's death, he knows that he can never be truly dissatisfied with his life as it is now.

They're _happy_, he thinks, watching her mouth move and twist a little around silent words in her dreams. They really are, the two of them together. They've both grown up, but they've grown together, not apart. And now, he can't imagine his life any other way.

_THE END_


End file.
